


Game of Scones

by Mint_and_Cinnamon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Baking, Comedy, GBBO gave me this idea, Multi, Open to pairing suggestions, Other, cakes, reality show, tv
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 20:04:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4800524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mint_and_Cinnamon/pseuds/Mint_and_Cinnamon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Westeros, the most popular show on TV is 'Baker's Dozen': a reality show where twelve bakers compete for a book deal and a smattering of polite applause. Sansa Stark is thrilled when she wins a place on the show, but soon finds that the world of televised baking is far more brutal than she thought it would be. Plunged into the middle of an unbelievably petty contest with some nasty off-screen consequences and struggling to come to terms with her rapidly-changing world, will Sansa have what it takes to play the Game of Scones?</p><p> </p><p>(Essentially, what would happen if the Game of Thrones cast entered the Great British Bake Off. Expect puns.)</p><p>ON HIATUS. Life etc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this idea just popped into my head and now it won't leave me alone. So here you go.
> 
> Also, I realise that this fic is coming out incredibly British. Spiffing.

Everyone who met him was always surprised that Tywin Lannister was ‘in the media’.

Their shock was not entirely unfounded. Tywin was a tall, stern-looking man who was closer to seventy than he liked to admit; with his predilection for sombre suits and severe glares, most people assumed he was a particularly nasty bank manager.

Sometimes, he wished he was.

When he had first started the LTV, things had been different.

He had started his business with Steffon Baratheon and Aerys Targaryen. It had been Aerys who had given them the idea – he was attending King’s University, and was always full of ideas – but it was Steffon and Tywin who had done the work. Steffon had handled the equipment, and the directing, and the lighting, and developing the film. Aerys had handled the scripts, the schmoozing, and the finding of several extremely attractive young actresses who were desperate to get their first break. Tywin had taken no part in this, but they had let him get on with the finances in peace.

It was by no means a peaceful task. Aerys and Steffon took out so many loans that Tywin had to produce miracles to pay them off. They moved their studio constantly, and ended up filming most of their early programmes in Aerys’s grandparents’ basement. Steffon’s equipment was always so expensive – and Aerys’s ideas were always so extravagant – that sometimes he suspected that nothing short of divine intervention had allowed them to succeed.

But they had succeeded, and for a time, they had been happy. How could he have been anything else, when that was how he had met Joanna?

Then Joanna – his darling girl – had died, leaving him holding a son he tried not to hate. Steffon died soon after in his boating accident, and then there was all that…unpleasantness with Aerys. But he could not dwell on his troubles. There was always so much to do – deals to close, programmes to commission, directors to bring to heel – that he had barely a minute to himself. Soon he was left at the head of an all-consuming media empire, with three increasingly distant children, an army of relatives clamouring for money, and a cold, empty space on Joanna’s side of the bed.

He had persevered, as he always would, but sometimes he wondered if being a bank manager might have been easier.

He sat back in his leather chair – one of the few luxuries he had permitted inside his stark office in the LTV Tower – and swivelled around to look out of his tenth-storey window. A wall of sheer glass was all that stood between him and the sprawl of King’s Landing. Old timber-and-beam houses were clustered around clumps of the old city wall, next to tall brownstone townhouses and gleaming glass-and-steel office blocks. To the west the shabby, worn houses of Flea Bottom clung to the dirt like a stubborn stain; he would have Jaime organise a charity drive there – the boy needed something to occupy himself. Off to the east he could see the Red Keep, glowing in the setting sun; just this morning he had concluded some particularly strenuous negotiations with the Westerosi Heritage Society, who had finally allowed him to use the location for filming. Beyond that he could see little more than a tangled web of motorways snaking out of the city, and the sea twinkling gently in the distance.

Tomorrow, his most successful show would start filming its seventh series. He knew he ought to be glad, and once he would have been. He never truly understood why, but _Baker’s Dozen_ brought in millions every year. The format was simple enough – it was a baking show, with twelve contestants – but for some reason, it had taken the Westerosi public by storm. Just this evening there had been a launch party on the roof terrace, and he had been shocked to discover that film stars had been on the guest list.

Olenna Redwyne had been there. She had winked at him. Even the memory of it made his toes curl.

He got to his feet, stretching.

Now that the new series was starting, he would be seeing a lot more of Olenna Redwyne.

* * *

 

 

Tyrion Lannister sat in his dressing room with his feet up on the make-up table, slurping his cappuccino loudly as he flicked through the young man’s CV. It was a technique he always employed when interviewing. The casual pose threw the candidates off their game, the drawn-out slurping noises irritated them, and spending an inordinate amount of time flicking through the paperwork without saying anything made them squirm in their seats every time. The ones who couldn’t cope would blurt out something stupid without fail; the ones who were made of sterner stuff knew how to sit and wait.

The young man in front of him had lasted a full three minutes.

Tyrion took another long, loud slurp of coffee. The young man flinched.

“So,” he said, setting down his cup with a bang, “what makes you think you’re qualified to be an intern for _Baker’s Dozen_?”

Behind him, his assistant Bronn snorted. “You don’t need qualifications to be an intern!”

Tyrion shot him a stern look. “On the contrary,” he said, “it’s a very demanding position in a very competitive industry. Yours is the two-hundred-and-seventh CV my assistant received, and you are the eighth candidate to make it to interview. There’s only one position, of course – so what makes you qualified?”

“I-I’ll work hard, M-Mr Lannister. I-I’ve got a v-very good work ethic. If you l-look at my grades –”

“Oh, I’ve seen your grades. You’re a smart lad. But grades are not the same as qualifications. What practical experience do you have?”

“W-well, I…I w-worked in an office l-last summer. I was r-responsible for f-filing office supplies–”

Bronn let out another snort of laughter. “Sent you down to the hardware store for left-handed screwdrivers, did they?”

The boy looked positively alarmed. “I-It was an o-office, they didn’t need –”

“It was a joke, Padraig,” said Tyrion.

“P-Podrick,” the young man said, blushing fiercely.

“Now then, Podrick, do you have any experience in the film industry? In television? In the media in general?”

“I…I was on the s-student p-paper at C-Community C-College…”

“So I see. An editor, rather than a journalist, weren’t you?”

Podrick nodded. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.

Tyrion bit back a sigh. The boy was clearly too shy to do well on set, and had no practical experience. He had at least worked in an office – which was more than he could say for most of the applicants, who had never had a real job in their young lives – but for the life of him, Tyrion could not understand how the boy was going to cope. It would be a busy job, even if it was only an internship – most of it comprised of coffee runs – and it needed someone with a good memory, who could think on their feet, and could cope with the pace of working in television.

“Is there anything else you would like to add?” Tyrion asked, already putting aside the boy’s CV. He had seemed so promising at first…

“I…I…I w-worked in a c-coffee shop for three y-years.”

Tyrion froze.

“I-It was to p-put myself through c-college. I c-could make everything on the m-menu. I…I got quite g-good.”

Tyrion beamed at him.

* * *

 

 

When Jon woke up, his mouth tasted like the floor of a night club. His head was pounding, everything ached, and there was a highly suspicious smell coming from somewhere under his bunk. The sounds of many feet marching through the barracks came through the window; it felt like they were stamping across the surface of his brain. Clearly, that last pint with Grenn and Pip had been a mistake.

He pulled himself upright – peeling off an old pair of socks that had stuck to his face – and pulled his laptop towards him, preparing to assess the damage.

It was always the same. Every time he had too much to drink, he would get back to the barracks and order something extravagant online. Every single time, it wound up being delivered to Ygritte’s poky little flat – he had some dim recollection of wanting to send her presents – and every single time she’d end up yelling down the phone at him. Last time it had been a gold watch, the time before that it had been a hot tub, and the time before that it had been a Lyceni sex swing – but Ygritte had not minded about that one.

He took a deep breath – ignoring the smell of old kebabs and stale vomit – and opened his emails.

 _Dear Jon_ , he read, _thank you very much for your application for Baker’s Dozen. We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted as a contestant. Please present yourself for filming at…_

Jon’s stomach heaved.

* * *

 

 

The TV crew sat in Sansa’s kitchen, looking slightly bewildered.

Three men and a woman were crammed into the tiny kitchen in the Stark family home with an assortment of cameras, boom mics and lights. They were surrounded by a tangle of wires that, just moments ago, Shaggydog had tried to bring back to his master as a trophy. Sansa had yelled for Rickon, but he had just laughed, and then for Bran, who had driven over a cameraman’s foot in his wheelchair, and then for Arya, who had attempted to physically lift Shaggydog away from the wires and had promptly been bitten. It had not been a bad bite – Shaggy was only playing, as Rickon had explained – but Arya had taken this as an invitation to wrestle and had almost knocked over one of the enormous, umbrella-shaped lamps the TV crew had brought.

Sansa prayed none of them had been filming it.

It had only been when their mother had ordered them all outside with a furious look on her face that Sansa was left to film her introduction in peace. While the TV crew fixed their wires – which were now covered in dog slobber – she smoothed out her pleated skirt, made sure her sleeves were rolled up in _just_ the right way, and tucked the collar of her shirt over the neck of her jumper.

“W-we’re ready when you are,” said the youngest of the men – a boy, really, with dark hair and a very sweet face – and she straightened up at once, beaming.

Everything was perfect.

She was going to be a contestant on _Baker’s Dozen_. She looked clean, neat and pretty, and she knew exactly what she was going to say. Her siblings were all gone outside – she could hear them yelling after their dogs, and there was not a Wolves jersey or a plaid shirt in sight. Lady sat beside her, her coat gleaming, and behind her, on the kitchen worktop by the door, sat a dozen elaborate cakes she had spent all morning preparing. It would make a perfect background for the shot – and she’d made sure to lock the kitchen door, just in case.

“And – action!”

“So,” said the interviewer, speaking into a microphone behind the camera, “why did you decide to enter _Baker’s Dozen_?”

“I’ve always loved baking,” she said, beaming into the camera, “ever since I was small. I have a lot of brothers and sisters, so when my mum was cooking for us all I used to help. Baking was always my favourite, so she taught me how to do it myself, and I suppose it just went from there.”

There was a soft rattling noise behind her, but Sansa didn’t dare look around while she was on camera.

“So you have a very large family, then?”

“Three brothers and a sister,” she said, “but my older brother would always bring his friends round, too. They’d eat everything I made in seconds.”

The cameraman smirked, and shifted position slightly. Sansa felt a little flutter of panic in her stomach.

“And you didn’t mind making everything for them?”

“Oh no,” she said, determined to hold her smile in place, “no, I liked helping. I didn’t always get to eat a lot of my bakes, but it was just nice making them. It’s so satisfying to be able to make something out of nothing like that.”

A floorboard creaked behind her. Lady padded away from her to sit beside the counter; Sansa clicked her fingers and she came back at once.

The interviewer nodded at her encouragingly, trying to get her to continue. Sansa heard something shift behind her and Lady let out a little growl. She ached to turn around and look – perhaps there was a fly buzzing around all her cakes – but with the camera still staring into her face, she did not dare.

“I guess,” she said, thinking fast, “coming from such a big family it’s just nice to have something that’s…something that’s mine.”

There was a snort of laughter behind her. Sansa whirled around.

She caught a brief glimpse of someone in a dirty Wolves jersey staggering under the weight of an enormous cream cake and disappearing through the kitchen door. On the kitchen worktop behind them, every single cake had been tampered with – there were slices missing, huge handfuls of icing had been scooped away, and two plates of banana bread and ginger snaps were missing.

A small trail of crumbs led out of the kitchen door. From the other side, she could hear her sister shrieking with laughter.

“ _Arya!_ ”

* * *

 

 

“Come on Robb, please! I can’t do it by myself!”

“Theon, I’m crap in the kitchen, you know that!”

“How hard can it be?”

“Bloody hard! Have you seen the stuff that Sansa makes?”

“Oh come _on_!”

“Look, Theon, I just –”

“Girls love bakers! You should hear them at work, they never shut up about it!”

“…Do they?”

* * *

 

 

Cersei stood in her immaculate kitchen, drumming her glossy red nails on the immaculate marble counter-top.

The TV crew would be arriving soon, to film Joff’s introduction. Everything had to be perfect.

She had done her best. The maid had polished every surface until they shone. It was a glorious sunny day, and a pitcher of Pimm’s sat in the middle of the table, the fresh fruit and ice gleaming up at her. A delicate arrangement of cupcakes had been placed on a wire cake stand, and next to them sat an elaborate pavlova, and next to _that_ was a three-ring cake stand covered in tiny little jam tarts. The effect, she thought, would be quite elegant.

Myrcella and Tommen had been forced into their best clothes and sat waiting in the drawing room, in case they would be interviewed too. She had pinned back Myrcella’s fringe – it was far too long, it looked so _messy_ – and had attacked Tommen’s hair with a wet comb, forcing it to lie flat. She had bundled his kittens in with them with strict instructions that if they got cat hair on the furniture, the wretched things would be leaving along with the camera crew. Thankfully, she had separated from her useless ex-husband some time ago, so there was no risk that _he_ would blunder into the shot.

The only problem was Joffrey.

He sat scowling at the other end of the kitchen table, picking at his fingernails. She’d forced him into a polo shirt and chinos – something smart, but not _too_ smart, she didn’t want anyone to think they were trying too hard. He looked as handsome as ever – or at least, he would, when he stopped scowling.

“I told you, Mother, I don’t _want_ to enter this stupid baking contest,” he pouted.

“Now, Joff, you grandfather worked very hard to get you a place on his show –”

“He should have worked harder, and given me a show of my own! He did for Tyrion!”

“I know, love, but –”

“I have better things to do with my time than mix up cake batter with a bunch of pensioners!”

“I’m well aware,” she snapped, and his eyes widened. “I know exactly what you do with your time, Joff, and that’s exactly why we have to raise your image like this! How could you possibly think that –”

“It’s not my fault!” he said, quickly, “Ramsay said that –”

“You’re lucky that Ramsay was there; it meant there was someone else to blame!”

He scowled down at the tabletop again.

“Look, Joff,” she said, putting a soothing arm around his shoulders, “it won’t be for long, only a few weeks. _Baker’s Dozen_ is watched by half the country; if you can charm your audience there’d be no jury that could ever rule against you.”

“Still,” he grumbled, “I don’t see why –”

A minivan pulled up into the driveway. The TV crew had arrived.

“That’s enough, Joff,” she sighed, pouring herself a glass of Pimm’s.

* * *

 

 

Sansa had not been allowed to re-shoot her introduction.

She had rung the LTV Tower in tears, while her mother shouted at Arya and Rickon in the background. The woman on the phone had been perfectly friendly, but she had said in no uncertain terms that the TV crew were very busy people with a lot of other contestants to interview, and if she was unhappy with the footage they wouldn’t be able to replace it in time for the show.

Now, she sat in her hotel room in King’s Landing, gnawing on a thumbnail and trying not to panic. She’d thought _Baker’s Dozen_ would be fun. She’d thought she’d impress everybody with how calm and collected she was, while Olenna Redwyne and Hot Pie talked about how nice her cakes were. She’d thought she’d make new friends – southron friends, who didn’t have to wear scarves all year round and didn’t think that wrestling a wet dog was a nice way to spend an evening. She’d thought she’d become best friends with Margaery Tyrell, and they would have coffee together, and she’d thought that maybe, if she was very lucky, she might get a nice southron boyfriend who didn’t live in flannel shirts and sports jerseys.

But she had thought wrong. _Baker’s Dozen_ would start filming tomorrow, and she was utterly convinced that it would be a disaster.

What if the other contestants hated her? What if the viewers hated her? What if they all laughed at her when they saw her brothers and sister stealing all her cake from right under her nose while she prattled on about baking? What if the TV crew really had got footage of Shaggydog chewing all those wires, or Bran driving over someone’s foot, or Arya wrestling the dogs on the floor?

She had seen the list of contestants. They’d mailed it out to everyone, and it had only made her more nervous.

_Joffrey Baratheon, 20_

_Theon Greyjoy, 23, & Robb Stark, 24_

_Viserys Targaryen, 25, & Daenerys Targaryen, 19_

_Robert Baratheon, 48 & Eddard Stark, 49_

_Walda Frey, 31_

_Oberyn Martell, 36_

_Walder Frey, 84_

_Stannis Baratheon, 44_

_Jon Snow, 23_

_Jorah Mormont, 39_

_Renly Baratheon, 38_

_Sansa Stark, 20_

She lay back on the bed, groaning. She’d thought that she’d finally get a chance to get away from her family in the _Baker’s Dozen_ tent, but both Dad and Robb would be there to. Not only would she definitely fail at baking, she would also die of embarrassment.

It was all going to go so terribly wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Here's the latest chapter - hope you all enjoy it :) Feel free to leave a comment if you want - I always love hearing what you guys think!

Sansa stood in front of the _Baker’s Dozen_ tent, clutching her book of recipes to her chest. It was an enormous marquee – more like a three-towered castle than a tent, really – and inside she could see twelve perfectly arranged worktops, ovens and fridges, all waiting for their contestants.

One of those worktops would be hers.

Everywhere she looked there were people and wires. The marquee was set up on a smooth, green lawn, but the grass was covered in a tangled mess of wiring. There was a forest of lights surrounding the tent, all of them shaped a little bit like umbrellas. They had huge cameras with seats strapped to the back on enormous rails, which could run smoothly alongside the tent.

She was beginning to feel extremely nervous.

A man with a dark goatee and grey in his hair was staring at her from a group of people near the back of the tent. He was dressed in a dark suit with a dark blue, open-neck shirt and carried a clipboard, so she supposed he must be important.

Someone laid a hand on her elbow. “Excuse me, are you lost?”

She jumped and looked up at the speaker.

Staring down at her was the tallest woman Sansa had ever seen. She had short blond hair that was very badly cut, broader shoulders than any of Sansa’s brothers, and was built like an Olympic shot-put champion. But she was smiling at her in a very friendly way, and Sansa noticed that behind her terrible hair, her eyes were almost as blue as her own.

“I’m Sansa Stark,” she said, “I’m one of the contestants. Am I late?”

The woman smiled and held out her hand. “No, don’t worry. I’m Brienne, the on-set welfare officer. If you have any problems about anything at all, you can come straight to me.”

Sansa smiled and shook Brienne’s hand. “Could you tell me where I need to go? That man with the clipboard – he isn’t registering people, is he?”

Brienne’s smile vanished. “Has he been bothering you?”

“No, I just wondered.”

Brienne nodded. “Well, don’t you mind him. He’s an exec; he’s probably just here to keep us on our toes. Now, if you follow me I can take you through to hair and make-up, if you like?”

She beamed. “You mean I get to be made up like a presenter?”

Brienne’s smile returned. “Not quite like that. Come on, I’ll show you.”

They left, and the TV exec in the dark blue shirt watched them leave.

* * *

 

 

Dany had not wanted to go on television, but Viserys had insisted.

When they had announced that the prize this year would be a book deal with Hightower Publishing, he had made up his mind. He had spent the past two years writing a novel about the _real_ story of the LTV, but no publisher had ever sent him so much as an email about it. The winner of _Baker’s Dozen_ , however, would be handed a book deal almost as soon as the show ended, and Viserys had seized his chance.

However, he had flatly refused to even go near the oven for the last three years, so of course he couldn’t enter by himself. She would be the one doing the baking; Viserys would be the one taking the book deal.

Now, she stood outside the hair and make-up trailer alongside her brother, and tried very hard not to feel ungrateful.

Someone _ought_ to tell their father’s story, and Viserys would be the best person to do it. Viserys had been old enough to understand everything Father told him before he died. She could never write such a book – she could barely remember her father at all. Viserys had been the one who had raised her – well, Viserys and old Mr Darry, who had lived downstairs – even though he always said she had made it so difficult for him.

She did not _want_ to be difficult, not when she owed him so much.

They shuffled forward in the queue, and Viserys gave her elbow a squeeze. It hurt, but she supposed he didn’t know his own strength.

“Remember,” he hissed, “don’t let them change you out of that dress. I’ve seen the stuff that Margaery Tyrell wears; I won’t have my sister dressed up like the Queen of Tarts.”

She glanced down at her dress. Viserys had bought it for her – he bought all her clothes, he never liked to let her out of the house with enough money to buy her own. This one was like all her others: a shirt-dress with full-length sleeves, a knee-length pleated skirt, and a collar that he insisted she button right up to her neck.

“Yes, Viserys.”

“And no make-up. Everyone’s going to be looking at you; I don’t want slap smeared all over your face.”

“But…but what about the cameras?”

His lip curled.

“Well,” he hissed, squeezing her elbow far too tightly, “you can’t go completely without, you don’t have the face for it. But no lipstick. You’re not a whore, are you?”

“No, Viserys.”

“Good. And don’t forget to smile. You’re supposed to be happy, you may as well act like it.”

She smiled.

It took a lot more effort than it should, and she hated herself for it.

* * *

 

 

Sansa was waiting in the tent, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet.

She had already claimed her workstation, setting her book of recipes firmly on the counter as the other contestants began to file in. It was in the middle, on the left-hand side: far away from the cameras, close enough to the judges’ table to see what they were doing but not so close as to be right under their noses, and right next to a water cooler that had been tucked behind one of the tent poles in case she got thirsty.

Brienne had let her go in the make-up trailer and she had spent a happy half an hour chatting to the team about the products they used, and the really good ones were saved in a note on her phone. She felt so much more relaxed now, hardly nervous at all…

“Sansa? Sansa!”

Someone was hissing her name from behind the water cooler. She peered around and saw Jon, his eyes wide and frantic.

“Jon!” she smiled, “I’m so glad you’re here; it’ll be so nice to –”

“You have to help me!” he hissed, “Ygritte said if I went out in the first week she’d dump me!”

“Oh Jon, Ygritte wouldn’t break up with you, don’t be silly!”

“You didn’t see her face, Sansa! She means it, I know she does! Look, you’re so good at baking, just give me a few tips –”

“I can’t do that, Jon, that’s cheating! Besides, I’m sure you won’t need them. Just do it like you practiced and you’ll be fine.”

He let out a frantic little laugh. “When I practiced I gave half the barracks food poisoning! It was burned on the outside and raw on the inside! Stuff was on _fire_ , Sansa!”

She sighed. “That’s because you had the heat on too high. Look, just make sure anything you take out of the fridge is all up to room temperature before you use it, let the oven warm up before you start and always read the recipe twice. You’ll be _fine_ , Jon. Just don’t panic.”

“E-Excuse me?” came a voice from the front of the tent, “C-Can I h-have everyone’s attention, p-please?”

“They’re starting!” she hissed, “you’ve got to get to your workstation!”

“H-hello? Um, i-if you could all j-just…”

Jon sprinted over to a desk right at the back of the tent. Theon and Robb cheered as he ran, laughing. Her father was stood behind one of the stations at the front and sweating profusely. A large, fat man was slumped in a chair beside him, laughing as he watched Jon run. A blond guy about her age stood right in front of her was laughing at Jon, too, and Sansa found herself wishing he would turn around so she could see what he looked like. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to the dark-haired boy at the front of the tent, who was waving a clipboard and trying to get their attention.

“Um, l-ladies and g-gentlemen…”

A dark-haired man in jeans and a check shirt slouched in, his hands deep in his pockets.

“OI!” he yelled, and the tent fell silent.

He nodded to the dark-haired boy and slouched out again.

“Th-thank you, B-Bronn,” the boy said, blushing to the tips of his ears, “w-well, l-ladies and g-gentlemen, w-w-welcome to the s-set of _B-Baker’s D-Dozen_ , w-where for the n-next t-ten weeks…”

“Oh, leave it, Pod, the moment’s lost.”

Tyrion Lannister and Margaery Tyrell strolled into the tent.

Sansa had not thought it possible for people to gleam before she saw them. The presenters were both immaculately dressed – Tyrion in dark trousers and a green shirt, Margaery in a flower-patterned dress that took her cleavage to dizzying depths. Their skin shone, their teeth winked under the lights, and it was abundantly clear that their hair had been tousled by experts. They were dressed casually – Tyrion even had his hands in his pockets – but somehow, they looked as if they had stepped straight off the red carpet.

Behind them, the cameras were swivelling round to look inside the tent. Boom mics were being lowered into position. Sansa’s hands began to shake. When had they started filming?

Margaery beamed at them all. “Now,” she said, clapping her hands together, “in just a moment you’ll be meeting our lovely judges for the very first time. Don’t worry, they don’t bite.”

Tyrion smirked to himself.

“This tent will become like a second home to you over the next ten weeks,” Margaery continued, “it’s seen plenty of blood, sweat and tears –”

“And other bodily fluids,” said Tyrion, smirking again.

Margaery gave him a playful shove. The camera swivelled round to catch it. Sansa’s hands clenched. They really _were_ filming…

Everything suddenly seemed incredibly clammy. The palms of her hands were prickling with sweat and she felt very unsteady on her feet. Tyrion and Margaery were joking with each other for the cameras – would she have to laugh? Would they disqualify her if she didn’t? Oh gods, and her _dad_ was here; what if he called her his stupid nickname for her on camera? Or what if Robb, Theon and Jon ganged up on her like they always used to, and what if they’d brought the dogs and they came crashing through the tent, and what if _Arya_ was here…

“– so please give a very warm welcome to our judges: Hot Pie and Olenna Redwyne!”

Sansa’s head snapped up.

The judges were _here_ , they were in the tent and oh gods, they’d seen her. Hot Pie gave them all a friendly little wave that she returned without thinking and gods above, the camera swivelled round to _look_ at her and now Olenna was looking too and she was raising an eyebrow, it _always_ meant trouble when Olenna raised an eyebrow, and now her hand was just frozen in mid-air and everyone was _looking_ at her and she couldn’t decide if she should just pretend she was going to scratch her head or just put her hand down and pretend it never happened and oh gods, _oh gods it was all going to go so wrong_ …

“Welcome to _Baker’s Dozen_. Gentlemen, ladies – start your ovens.”

Sansa gulped.

* * *

 

 

When Robert Baratheon had asked him for a favour, Ned had assumed that he would be moving furniture.

His old university friend had done something to his ribs. Robert said it was a hunting accident, but judging from the rate that he was slurping down the cooking sherry, Ned was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t just stumbled into something after one too many drinks.

The doctors had said that he should rest, and take particular care when raising his right arm, and somehow Robert had taken this to mean that Ned had to come on this stupid baking show with him. Ned had never even seen the damn show – although of course he would’ve watched it this year, with Robb and Sansa both competing. Robert had ties to the TV station – he had been Tywin Lannister’s ideas man after that unpleasant business with Aerys Targaryen became public knowledge – but Ned had never been interested in any of that. Robert had offered him a job at the station when he was young, but Cat had been pregnant again, his construction business was doing well, and he’d never been comfortable around cameras the way that Robert had. In the end, he’d turned him down, making it perfectly clear that Eddard Stark would _never_ go on camera.

And yet somehow, here he was.

The last time he had attempted to make Cat a cake Arya and Rickon had persuaded him to let them eat all the batter, and he had presented his wife with an empty bowl and two sticky children. Now he was confronted with the first challenge of _Baker’s Dozen_ : to make his own ‘variation’ on a Victoria sponge. Or rather, Robert’s variation, which involved so much cooking sherry that the smell was making his eyes water.

Robert himself was sitting beside the counter, flicking the oven on and off, his leg propped up on a stool. Ned ground his teeth. Robert’s leg wasn’t even injured.

He read through the instructions again – reminding himself not to call them instructions on camera – and gingerly picked up an egg. He tapped it against the side of the bowl and it smashed in his hand.

Robert gave a very wet-sounding chuckle and took another swig of sherry.

Ned ground his teeth, and wished that Cat were here.

* * *

 

 

Thirty minutes later, all Sansa’s panic had subsided.

The first week was always cake week, and this series was no exception. She’d chosen something simple – an almond and raspberry Victoria sponge, with a raspberry cream filling and layers of fresh fruit on top. Her oven was already warming up, her tins were already greased, and her piping bag was neatly laid out on the counter, even though she would only need it right at the end. It was a recipe she’d made hundreds of times before, and as she mixed up her huge bowl of cake batter she could feel the tension easing out of her shoulders.

The same could not be said for the rest of the tent.

Her dad was already pouring over a recipe book, tracing the words with a finger and muttering them under his breath. Behind him, his fat friend poured half a bottle of cooking sherry into the mixing bowl and took a swig himself. Robb and Theon were not doing much better; they had forgotten all about their cake batter and were busy flicking each other with tea-towels. A white-haired girl about her age was sweating over a mixing bowl, her eyes darting all across the counter, while her white-haired brother stared haughtily around the tent. On the other side of the tent she could see a tall, thin man juicing oranges and lemons. There was a long line of kitchen timers beside him. One of them went off and the man straightened up immediately and began pouring sugar onto a set of scales. He frowned at it, crouched down, and began siphoning off little spoonfuls of sugar and putting them back into the bag. Then, satisfied, he straightened up, tipped the sugar into his big mixing bowl, and went back to his citrus fruits.

The only person who seemed relaxed was a Dornishman near the front of the tent. Margaery, Tyrion and the judges had stopped by his workstation and he had forgotten all about his cake. He was leaning forward, staring into Margaery’s eyes and saying something to her in a low, thrilling voice. It seemed as if Margaery had forgotten all about the cake, too; she was staring at the Dornishman with sparkling eyes, her face strangely flushed.

“Excuse me – those aren’t almonds, are they?”

She looked up and almost dropped her mixing bowl.

Standing in front of her was the most gorgeous guy she had ever seen. He had short blond hair, bright green eyes and lips that she couldn’t stop staring at. He was dressed in a purple polo shirt and pale chinos – _finally_ , she thought, _someone who’s not wearing flannel or a sports jersey_ – and as he looked at her she felt butterflies whirling in her stomach.

“Um. Yes, they are. Do you want some? I mean, I’ll still need them for my cake but, um, I guess you could have some as a snack if you really wanted…”

He smiled at her. “Thank you, but I’m allergic.”

“I’m so sorry,” she garbled, lunging for the almonds and shoving them away from him, “they aren’t…you can’t have an allergic reaction to almond smell, can you? What happens if you breathe in the fumes?”

He chuckled. “I’m sure I’ll be all right. I’m Joffrey, by the way. Joffrey Baratheon.”

He held out his hand. Sansa washed hers furiously before shaking his, and dripped water all over the counter. Joffrey wrinkled his nose.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, “I just thought, with your allergies…”

“It’s a real pity I won’t be able to try some of your cake,” he said, leaning forward, “I’ll bet anything _you_ make is delicious.”

She blushed to the roots of her hair. “Well, I don’t know about that…I’ll have to see how it turns out, but I mean, thank you, that’s a really nice thing to say…”

“You’ll have to make something for me one of these days. Where are you staying? Perhaps we could –”

“Well! What are you making here, young lady?”

Sansa jumped. Olenna Redwyne had materialised at the far end of her counter, flanked by Hot Pie, Tyrion and Margaery, and her eyes were like flashing steel.

“I – nothing,” she blurted, “I mean, cake. I’m making cake.”

Margaery leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. “It looked to me like you were making a _friend_ ,” she purred, and Sansa seized her mixing bowl, desperate to have something to do other than stand there and blush.

“No! I mean, well, friends are…are nice and there’s nothing wrong with that!”

Olenna took Margaery’s arm. “Leave her be, dear. We mustn’t tease the poor girl – young love can be so fragile.”

They moved away and Sansa found herself staring straight into a camera, heat crawling up her cheeks.

Tyrion was the last to follow them, watching Joffrey with a very shrewd expression on his face.

* * *

 

 

Sansa thought the technical challenge was easy.

They had to make twenty-four identical fairy cakes, each one with perfect buttercream icing swirled on top. They only had one hour, but Sansa was not worried. She’d made fairy cakes so often it was almost second nature to her. She’d even had another little chat with Joffrey while she waited for them to bake, and he told her that she had the prettiest hair he’d ever seen.

He’d said it in front of the camera, too. She would’ve preferred it if he’d waited for the cameraman to move on before he said it – some things would be better kept between them – but she supposed it must mean he wanted everyone to know just how much he liked her.

She wasn’t the only one who thought that challenge was easy. Even Robb and Theon had managed it, although Theon had drawn some very rude pictures in the icing that the cameraman got really angry about. It had taken the camera crew five minutes to find an angle that didn’t show what the pictures were, and Olenna had been quietly and utterly furious.

The only one who struggled was Jon, who presented twenty-four charred lumps of carbon and cringed all the way back to his table.

* * *

 

 

By the time the final challenge rolled around, Dany felt thoroughly sick.

It was the showstopper round, and the judges had asked them all to make a cake with a hidden design inside. The…well, the _larger_ woman whose name she hadn’t learned had squealed in delight and started telling anyone who would listen about her plans to make a ‘secret garden’ cake. The friendly-looking bearded man who kept shooting interested glances at her brother and the Northern boy had smirked to himself and reached for the food colouring; based on the reds and yellows, Dany’s money was on a sunset cake. The older guy opposite her had chosen a bear; he’d shown her his recipe drawings with a slightly pitying smile on his face.

Viserys, of course, had insisted on a dragon.

He had told her in no uncertain terms exactly what he wanted. The traditional banner of House Targaryen, the old kings and queens from which they were descended. The cake should be shaped like a crown, and inside it should have the red dragon on the black background, curled in a circular design just like it always was in the history books.

Then he had left to talk to Margaery Tyrell.

Dany knew that she could never make the cake he wanted. The design was impossible – _no_ , she thought, correcting herself instantly, _Viserys would never choose something impossible_. She probably just wasn’t good enough to make it – and if she tried, she would ruin their chances of ever telling their father’s story.

So, she improvised.

While Viserys was speaking urgently to Margaery Tyrell – leaning forward and running a hand along her arm as he spoke – she reached for the yellow, the red and the blue. She mixed together the batter and separated it into three different bowls, each one a different colour. She put the red and blue batter into a silicone ice cube tray with divots shaped like diamonds and stars, and put them in the oven to bake. When they were done, she pulled them out again, and dropped them in her bowl of yellow cake batter. She mixed together her food colourings in a separate bowl until she had the perfect shade of orange, and then she began to roll out marzipan.

When her time was up, she was sure she had a cake that would make Viserys proud, even if it was not exactly what he had wanted.

A brick-red marzipan dragon sat curled on the top of her cake, which was covered in dark chocolate icing. When you cut into it, it would reveal the dragon’s treasure – yellow gold dotted with rubies and sapphires. It was not quite what Viserys had pictured, but surely –

A hand closed around her elbow, squeezing far too tight.

“What in seven hells have you done? This isn’t what I told you!”

Viserys was hissing in her ear as the other contestants put their cakes at the end of their tables. He dragged her closer, so close that she could smell Margaery Tyrell’s perfume on him. What had he been doing?

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered, “I…I didn’t think I’d be good enough to make your design, so I did this instead…”

“You _idiot_! What did you do that for?”

There was a lump in her throat. She always got a lump in her throat when she made Viserys angry. “I…I just didn’t want to ruin our chances…”

“You’ve ruined our chances by giving the judges this muck! After all I’ve done for –”

“Oh dear,” came a voice, “I hope we’re not seeing a little sibling rivalry.”

The judges were at their table. The cameras were all pointed in their direction. Tyrion Lannister was smiling, but it was a smile that was utterly free from sympathy. His mismatched eyes were fixed on Viserys, shrewd and alert.

Viserys let go of her elbow at once. Dany forced herself to smile.

“My baby sister had a little crisis of confidence,” Viserys said, addressing himself to Margaery’s cleavage, “she didn’t think she was good enough to attempt _my_ design.”

Olenna Redwyne gave him a brittle smile. “Is that so? Well, I wouldn’t be surprised. In my experience, the only person who can truly bring a cake design to life is the person who first imagined it.”

Margaery beamed at him. “Yes, it is such a pity that you didn’t get a chance to attempt the design yourself.”

Viserys glared at them. The judges just smiled – all except Hot Pie, who looked extremely confused.

“Well, my dear, shall we have some of your _unplanned_ cake?” asked Olenna, fixing Dany with a much more encouraging smile.

Dany said nothing, and handed her the knife.

It was perfect. The cake looked just as she imagined. The rubies and sapphires looked exactly as she had hoped, the dragon’s marzipan scales glittered, and it smelled so good her mouth watered. According to the judges, it tasted as good as it looked – the consistency was good, and they liked the flavour – but perhaps they were just being kind.

They moved on to look at a northern boy who had managed to set off the smoke detectors. As they left, Dany saw Hot Pie whisper in Olenna’s ear.

“Was that really just about cake?” he asked, a very confused expression on his face.

Viserys’s hand clamped around her elbow again.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he hissed, “they didn’t really like your muck. They have all sorts of rules about what the judges can say; if they told you what they really thought you’d be laughed out of the tent.”

All too soon, it was time to announce who would be leaving. The judges made them all line up in a row at the front of the tent, and Viserys hissed in her ear again.

“If your little stunt sends us home I won’t have you in the house,” he spat.

Margaery Tyrell cleared her throat. Dany flinched; Viserys squeezed.

“Well,” Margaery began, “it’s been a wonderful start to the series. We’ve seen so much good work from all of you –”

“Our family has been through enough already,” Viserys muttered, “if we get sent home you’ll be the one who fixes it.”

“But of course,” chimed in Tyrion, “we can’t keep you all. We must say goodbye to one unlucky person, and this week it’s –”

“I mean it,” hissed Viserys, “if we get sent home there’ll be all seven hells to pay, sister…”

“Jon,” said Margaery.

Dany’s knees buckled.

Viserys let go of her arm and she stumbled forward. All the feeling had drained out of her fingers; moving them felt strange and stiff. The other contestants were all hugging the northern boy and shaking his hand, and she knew she should too, but her legs were trembling and she felt cold all over.

“And – cut!”

An extremely large blonde woman came sprinting out of nowhere. She put a gentle hand on Dany’s shoulder.

“It’s Daenerys, isn’t it? Are you all right? You look very pale; can I get you some water?”

Viserys stepped forward. “She’s just a little nervous. The tension, you know – she’s never been good on camera, have you, Dany?”

Dany shook her head, staring at the floor.

“Well, if you’re sure…you don’t want to sit down?”

“You know, Dany, you do look pale. Well, paler than usual. Perhaps we’d better head back to the hotel. You know I need you in good shape for the next round.”

Dany nodded. Viserys led her away.

Her elbow was beginning to throb.

* * *

 

 

Jon took the bus straight to Ygritte’s house.

It had been a long flight back north, and an even longer bus journey from Whiteharbour Airport to the Wall, and he had spent all of it entirely miserable.

Ygritte was going to dump him.

She had made it perfectly clear that if he went out in the first week, she would end their relationship, and that was exactly what had happened. The least he could do would be to get home before the show aired, so he could tell her himself, rather than lying to her until the first episode was broadcast.

He huddled down into his jacket, burying his hands in his pockets as he walked towards her flat.

He wished it hadn’t come to this. He had really liked Ygritte – loved her, even. She had been his first – well, his first _everything_. His first kiss, his first love, his first…

He reached the door to her building and began to climb the stairs. Within seconds, he was at her door.

He took a deep breath, and rang the doorbell.

She opened it at once. She was wearing a tank top, jeans and a flannel shirt tied around her waist. There were no goose pimples on her arms at all, even though he was still wearing his jacket – but then, she never seemed to feel the cold the way that he did.

It was one of the things he loved about her.

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“I went out in the first round,” he muttered, unable to look at her. “It’s…look, it’s all right, you don’t have to say anything. I’m not here to fight; I know what you said. I’ll just get my stuff and…and leave you be.”

She gave him a smile that was half-exasperated, and half-pitying.

“You know nothing, Jon Snow,” she said, and pulled him inside by the collar of his jacket.

She kissed him – fierce and strong, just like her – and he kicked the door shut behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Hope you guys enjoy it - I'm setting up my ships :P as well as some total anti-ships, now I think about it, but NEVER MIND. As always, feel free to leave a comment - feedback is always appreciated :)

They sat around the table in the dying light. Each man had a pile of papers in front of him, or a glowing screen, or both. Only the woman had an empty place before her. She drummed her immaculate red nails on the tabletop, waiting.

“Well?” she said. Her voice was like cut glass: clear and cold.

“A mixed reaction, at best,” came a soft voice from behind a blinding screen, “the viewers’ opinion fluctuated all throughout the episode. But I assure you, this is quite normal for a first appearance. In my experience, viewers don’t tend to pick their favourite until a few more episodes have passed.”

“We don’t have time to wait a few more episodes,” the woman hissed, “they’re already gathering evidence. He could be implicated at any moment; all the Bolton boy will have to do is name him in court. We’ve got to get the public on our side before that happens.”

Another man cleared his throat.

“There is _one_ idea I might put forward,” the man said, his voice loaded with an unfamiliar accent.

“And what might that be?”

“The Stark girl was very well received. His ratings shot up whenever they spoke to each other; perhaps it might be in our best interests to… _escalate_ this situation.”

“How can that pretty little idiot help us? She doesn’t have two brain cells to rub together! The only thing that girl has going for her is her –”

“But that’s precisely my point,” the man with the accent said. “She’s young, she’s innocent, she’s naïve – she’s _perfect_. If half the nation is watching their tender little romance, who could ever believe he’d get mixed up with the Bolton boy?”

The man with the soft voice leaned forward; his chair creaked beneath him. “Is this wise? Forgive me for saying so, madam, but his interactions with young women have been…colourful. If this behaviour were exposed on national television…”

“It won’t be,” the woman snapped, “I will make sure of it.”

The rest of the men around the table murmured their approval, and the woman smirked.

* * *

 

 

When she got to the tent for the next round of _Baker’s Dozen_ , Sansa made sure she was looking her best. She wore her favourite silky green dress – knee length, patterned with bright little birds, with tiny sleeves and a flared skirt – pumps, and an oversized denim shirt in case it got cold. Her hair was brushed and gleaming, she had applied _just_ the right amount of make-up, and she’d even cracked into the Dornish perfume she’d been given for her birthday. She didn’t want Joffrey to think she was unsophisticated, just because she was a northerner.

She was the only one in the tent.

She began setting up her workstation, glancing up at the entrances now and then. She read through her recipes again, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. It was biscuits this round, and the judges would be asking for a sculpture this week. They always did, in the biscuit round, so everyone would have practiced. She would have to make sure hers was spectacular…

“Miss…Stark, isn’t it? You’re early this morning.”

She looked up, instantly hopeful, but the speaker was not Joffrey. It was a man she had never seen before, with salt-and-pepper hair and a well-groomed goatee. He was wearing a grey silk shirt, a very well-cut dark suit, and a headset.

“Oh,” she said, disappointment bleeding into her voice. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met…”

The man smiled at her. His eyes were grey-green, and they moved like little fish swimming across a pond.

“Petyr Baelish,” he said, offering her his hand, “I’m with the network.”

She shook his hand, instantly nervous again. “You are?”

“Yes. Just to keep an eye on things, you know. Make sure everyone’s on their toes.”

She held herself a little straighter. “Everyone?”

He leaned forward, smirking. “Just the crew. Don’t worry, _you’re_ not in trouble.”

She could not help but think that there was a ‘yet’ on the end of that sentence. She forced a smile. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Brienne’s massive blond head peering into the tent. Brienne did a double take, backed away, and hauled the dark-haired boy who had called for quiet into view, hissing frantically in his ear.

“So,” said Mr Baelish, “how are you finding the set? Have you found the good coffee yet?”

“It’s nice, thank you. And – no, I haven’t found the coffee yet, Mr Baelish.”

“Call me Petyr, please. Let me show you where it is – I’ll buy you a cup, my treat. My blend is flown in from Essos; I’m sure _one_ of the interns would know how to make something with it.”

At that moment, one of the interns walked into the tent – the dark-haired boy who had been talking to Brienne. He shuffled up to Petyr and tapped him on the shoulder, and out of the corner of her eye Sansa noticed Brienne peeking around one of the tent poles, watching him.

“M-Mr Baelish,” the boy mumbled, “th-there’s a c-call for you in your t-trailer. They’re s-s-saying it’s urgent…”

Petyr clapped him on the shoulder. “Ah, Padraig,” he said, “just the man I wanted to see.”

“P-P-Podrick,” the boy muttered.

“That’s what I said,” said Petyr, smiling, “run along and bring us two cups of coffee, would you? My special blend. I’ll take a triple shot soy macchiato, no foam, and make sure the beans have been well rinsed _before_ you put them through the machine. And a cappuccino for the lady, easy on the foam and the chocolate powder, and – what kind of milk do you want?” he asked, looking at Sansa.

“That’s very kind of you, but I –”

“Not at all,” he said, already turning back to Podrick, “let’s just make that a half-and-half. And don’t forget to bring them both with a glass of chilled mineral water on the side – _chilled_ mineral water, not iced, Podrick, don’t forget that – and make sure to clean the filter before you start. Run those back over here in a couple of minutes, would you?”

All the colour had leeched out of Podrick’s face. He sprinted out of the tent.

Sansa felt a hand on her shoulder. She smelled sawdust – her father’s smell – and a little tension eased out of her.

“Baelish.”

Sansa froze. She had never heard her father sound so severe…

“Ned,” said Petyr, his smile widening, “good to see you. I was just having a little chat with your daughter – lovely girl, very talented. She’ll go far, I’m sure.”

Her dad squeezed her shoulder, very gently. “Yes,” he said, “she will.”

“Well, it was lovely seeing you,” said Petyr, “but I’m afraid I must dash; the studio’s on the line for me. Do give my regards to Cat, won’t you?”

Her father’s fingers twitched.

When they were alone, she turned to face him. His eyes were dark, and there seemed to be far more lines on his face than she remembered.

“I don’t want you talking to that man, Sansa.”

“Come on, Dad! He was probably just being friendly!”

“All the same, I don’t –” he broke off, glancing down at her dress. “You’re all dressed up today.”

She blushed a little, and scuffed at the floor with her shoe.

“I saw the last episode. This wouldn’t have anything to do with that Baratheon lad, would it?”

She scuffed a little too hard, and ended up kicking her workstation by mistake. Heat exploded in her cheeks.

“Chicken,” he said, very gently, “I don’t think he’s a very nice boy.”

“You don’t know that!”

Her dad let out a long sigh. “Robert’s his father. Apparently there was some sort of trouble – serious trouble, Sansa. He won’t tell me what happened, but Robert won’t have anything more to do with him.”

Her eyes widened. “But he’s his son!”

“I know, Chicken.”

“But…but don’t you think Robert might have made some mistake? He…he drinks quite a lot, Dad. Joffrey wouldn’t do anything _that_ bad, I’m sure of it!”

He gave her a very sad smile.

“You’re old enough to make your own mind up now, I suppose. Just you be careful, Chicken.”

“I will. I promise.”

He gave her a quick, strong hug, and Sansa was left with doubt crawling up her spine.

* * *

 

 

Luckily, the presenters had managed to get inside the tent before it started raining.

It was the kind of rain that battered the plastic walls of the marquee with such force that it seemed to rattle. A handheld camera crew was rushed inside, their footprints squelching on the floor, and stood dripping in the corner as they filmed everyone.

Dany had not been quite so lucky.

Just before the first round was about to start – when pregnant clouds loomed above them – Viserys had turned to her and demanded that she fetch his jacket from the make-up trailer. She had been reading through her recipes again, checking the design of her biscuit sculpture and the flavours of her traybake, when he had tugged the book out of her hands and sent her running across the field with a shove that was just a little too hard.

He had laughed when he pushed her, even though she had stumbled a little.

Now, the field was slowly turning into a muddy bog, sucking at her shoes. The rain drilled into her skin, plastering her hair to her face as she clutched her brother’s jacket to her chest in an attempt to keep it dry.

He would be angry when she got back. He wouldn’t want her to look like this on camera; like a drowned rat pulled out of a Flea Bottom sewer. He’d be angrier still if his jacket got wet. He’d hold it in while the cameras were rolling, like a pot simmering on the stove, and when he got her out of sight his anger would boil over…

An enormous man was walking towards her.

Her feet skidded in the mud and she flailed frantically; when she looked up again he was standing right in front of her.

He towered over her. He was the tallest man she had ever seen, and one of the broadest, too. He seemed to be nothing more than a pillar of muscle in jeans and a leather jacket. His long dark hair and beard were dripping, but he did not seem to care.

She held Viserys’s jacket a little tighter.

The man shrugged off his jacket. He draped it over her head and shoulders like a veil, and even then it still came down to her knees. It smelled warm; she had never thought heat could have a smell, until now.

“Thank you,” she said.

The man nodded. Only a thin, worn wife-beater covered his chest now, and as the rain plummeted downwards, it stopped being white and became translucent. His brown skin shone in the rain, his biceps gleaming, and under the thin material of his shirt she could see the faintest outlines of scars.

“Won’t you be cold?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, and he shook his head.

She cleared her throat, heat crawling through her skin. “Well, I should get going. I don’t want them to start without me.”

She took a step forward and felt the ground slide underneath her. She let out a shriek and began to fall, but brown hands held her steady.

They were so gentle.

The man looked at her thoughtfully for a few moments – looking at the mud splattered up the backs of her legs, no doubt – and then, quite suddenly, he bent down and lifted her into his arms.

It felt like something deep inside her had been started spinning. If she didn’t know better, she would’ve said she was dizzy, but she could see the man’s slick, brown chest perfectly clearly. One of his arms supported her back, the right side of her body was pressed up against his chest, and one of his hands was curled around her thighs. Every single place she was touching him felt like fire.

He started walking towards the tent, and panic flashed through her. What would Viserys say, if he saw her now?

“This really isn’t necessary,” she said, “I’m sure I can manage.”

He kept walking. Dany had to fight the urge to lay her head against his chest.

“Won’t…won’t you get in trouble if you just walk in with all those cameras rolling?”

They had come to the tent now. The baking had already started; she could see Viserys scribbling frantically on a piece of paper at their workstation while the presenters strolled around the tent. The man stopped under an overhanging piece of the marquee and set her down, very gently. When he pulled away from her, it felt like he had taken something.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice quiet, “that was really kind of you.”

She took his jacket off her head and held it out to him.

He smiled and shook his head. Then, he strode out into the rain, and she watched him go.

* * *

 

 

Before every challenge, Stannis set up his timers. He would work out exactly how much time each part of the recipe would take him, and line them all up in a row along the back of his workstation and set them running. This first challenge was a relatively simple traybake, but he already had seven timers lined up along the worktop already.

It was a habit that Renly had always hated.

One of his timers beeped – it was time to start making up his icing bag – and Renly shot him a dark look from across the tent. Renly, of course, did not _need_ the timers. He’d always had a gift for knowing exactly what to do and exactly when to do it, and it was not one which was limited to baking.

Stannis began measuring out his icing sugar.

Across the tent, Renly was laughing and joking with Tyrion and Margaery while stirring a bowl full of coloured icing. He glanced down at it for a fraction of a second, and then splashed in another cup of water. He didn’t even need to look at it.

The camera crew signalled to the presenters, and moments later it was announced that both they and the crew would be taking a short break. The presenters and cameramen all wandered off the set – leaving no-one but a very panicked-looking intern behind – and Stannis turned back to his icing.

He only knew she was there when he smelled her perfume.

“You take such care in your work,” came a low, female voice.

Stannis glanced sideways. Hovering by his workstation was a woman in a red dress, with long red hair tumbling past her shoulders. She was staring at him.

He turned back to his icing. “Baking is a science, not an art.”

The woman placed a hand on the table. Her fingertips were disconcertingly close to his forearm.

“It is rare to find a man who thinks so,” she murmured, “you are unique, my friend.”

He began measuring out the water, crouching down so his eyes were level with his measuring jug. “Aren’t we all?”

She smiled. “Your brothers are not.”

Water slopped over the sides of his measuring jug.

“They are simple men,” she continued, “only interested in smiling for the camera. You, I think, are somewhat deeper. You are not here for the glory, are you, Stannis Baratheon?”

Stannis clenched his teeth.

The woman leaned forward. He tried not to look at her. “I think that you are here for love.”

A chill swept through him. How did she know?

The woman produced a small leaflet from nowhere and slid it across the tabletop.

“There is nothing purer,” she muttered, “or more divine. I will be here, should you wish to discuss it.”

She walked away, swaying her hips as she did so. The two Northern boys watched her leave, nudging each other, and on the other side of the tent old Walder Frey watched her too, licking his dessicated lips.

Stannis glanced down at the leaflet.

 _The Church of R’hllor Welcomes You_ , it read.

He put it aside and began measuring out the water again.

* * *

 

 

Sansa had given it much thought, but by the next day, she decided she would have to speak to Joffrey. If what her dad had said was true, and Joffrey really was in some kind of trouble, she would much rather know about it now than find out later.

Of course, there was no way it could be true. Joffrey was always so sweet to her; she couldn’t imagine him so much as breaking a vase. If he was in trouble at all – which she doubted – it was probably all just some big misunderstanding.

But still, it was better to be certain about these things.

The first challenge had gone well. Her raspberry and white chocolate blondies had been very well received – Olenna had _smiled_ at her, and after the cameras were switched off Tyrion Lannister came back to her table and asked if he could take a few home for his niece and nephew. But then again, everyone had done well. Robb and Theon managed a very good plate of brownies between them, even though Theon had said they hadn’t been allowed to use their ‘secret ingredient’, whatever that was. Dad and Robert had handed in some gooey-looking brownies which reeked of sherry so strongly that Hot Pie had staggered backwards, coughing, but Olenna pronounced them very good. Renly had presented this amazing banoffee traybake that Arya would have killed for, and Joffrey had made a fridge cake and had spent the last half hour of that challenge telling her how pretty she looked in her green dress.

Now, she was waiting for the technical challenge to begin, her hair twisted into a messy bun that had taken half an hour to perfect. She was wearing another of her favourite outfits – a pale yellow T-shirt layered under a blue skater dress with knee high socks and pumps. She looked perfect – she had made sure of it – but it was not making her feel any better.

She had no idea what she was going to say to him.

Joffrey came into the tent and she straightened up, just as the cameras started rolling. Sansa glanced through her recipe – they would be making brandy snaps, which wouldn’t really be a problem. She’d made them once or twice before, and the recipe looked simple enough.

Joffrey seemed to think so, too. He was leaning on his table and smiling at her, and when he caught her looking her heart gave a little lurch. Surely nobody who smiled as nicely as he did could do anything _really_ bad…

When her first batch was in the oven, she leaned forward, swallowing nervously. Her mouth had suddenly gone very dry. Gods above, how could she ever hope to ask him about this with any kind of tact…

“Um, Joffrey,” she began, her voice a good deal higher than usual, “are…are you busy?”

He turned around at once, smiling. “I’ve always got time for _you_ , Sansa.”

She smiled, despite herself. “Well…well, I was just wondering if…if you might be related to some of the other contestants. I mean, Baratheon’s not a very common surname, so I just thought…”

A shadow flickered across his face. “ _You’re_ related to some of the other contestants too,” he said, a distinctly sulky edge to his voice.

“I didn’t mean it as a bad thing!” she garbled, “I…I was just curious, is all. I mean, I don’t know a lot about you and…and I just wondered.”

He gave her a long, searching look that she did not like. All his smiles seemed to have trickled out of his eyes like tears.

“Actually, I am,” he said, in a very low voice, leaning on her workstation. “Stannis and Renly are my uncles, and Robert…Robert is my father.”

“I know,” she breathed, “My dad told me earlier. But…I was really shocked, I have to say.” From the corner of her eye, Sansa could see a camera swivel around to look at them. She tried to ignore it.

“I don’t blame you for being surprised,” Joffrey continued, “we aren’t exactly close. He and Mother separated a few years ago, and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Oh Joffrey,” she whispered, as a boom mic crept closer to their heads, “I’m so sorry. I never wanted to bring up bad memories for you. Forget I asked, please.”

“What else did your dad say?” Joffrey asked, “Does…Does Father talk about me much?”

There was a very intense look in his eyes. Sansa almost wanted to pull back from it, but she knew that would only hurt his feelings. He’d already been through so much, growing up without a father…

“I’m not sure,” she said, “he said you were in some trouble, but –”

Joffrey let out a mirthless laugh that was just a little too loud. “That? Gods above, I – he’s talking about my _grades_. School got difficult after he left, and – well, I’m sure you understand.”

He took her hand – on _camera_ , gods, her _mum_ would be watching this – and stared deeply into her eyes.

“You do understand, don’t you?”

The last piece of her doubt melted away.

“Of course I understand, Joffrey.”

He smiled, and turned back to his workstation. When the challenge ended, and the cameras were switched off, Petyr Baelish was waiting at the edge of the tent. Joffrey headed straight for him without saying goodbye. Petyr took a good, long look at her knee-high socks before the pair of them walked off, whispering.

* * *

 

 

Walda had been given a table just behind the Dornishman, and it was starting to make her a little uncomfortable.

It wasn’t that he insisted on wearing a lot of open-necked yellow shirts, which revealed far more chest than anything in her own wardrobe. It wasn’t that he spoke at length about how sensual kneading dough could be, in a voice that made her want to take a very cold shower. It wasn’t even that he had a habit of licking things off his fingers while maintaining some very intense eye contact.

He just didn’t seem to _care_.

She’d never seen him flustered, not once. During the signature bake challenge he’d been caught in the rain on his way over, and had simply peeled off his wet shirt on camera, in the middle of the tent. There had been fresh scratches on his back.

She forced herself to concentrate on her biscuit sculpture. For the showstopper challenge, she would really need to focus if she wanted to win. She reached for a bottle of red food colouring and began diluting it, for that perfect shade of pink. Her flowerpot sculpture would be perfect, if only she could get the colour right…

“Ah, Oberyn,” Olenna Redwyne said, “what are you making for us this week?”

Walda’s head snapped up. The judges were at the Dornishman’s table; they would be stopping at hers next. Slowly, and carefully, she began mixing the dye with her biscuit dough. She’d really give them something to talk about…

“This week I wish to make something that captures the spirit of my countrymen,” Oberyn was saying, in a voice that sounded like music, “something bold, something passionate, something proud.”

“Like the famous Dornish bullfights?” asked Margaery, leaning forward and gazing into Oberyn’s eyes. From across the tent, Walda could see Grandpa Walder leering at her.

“It is such a blessing to meet a woman who appreciates my culture. But no, today the subject of my work will be love.”

Tyrion’s eyes widened. “You know, Oberyn, we have certain rules about what we’re allowed to broadcast on air…”

“I will be depicting the purest Dornish love story there is, my friend. The great warrior queen Nymeria, and her lord husband, my ancestor. I assure you, it will do their story justice.”

“Yes, but all the same…exactly _which_ parts of their love story will you be…er…re-creating?”

Walda decided not to listen. A blush was crawling up her neck and she needed to concentrate on her baking. Listening to Oberyn Martell talk about depicting the ‘ultimate act of love’ – whatever he meant by _that_ – was not going to help.

Briefly, she wondered what Dr Bolton would think about the ‘ultimate act of love’.

Her spoon slipped out of her hand and clattered into the bowl.

Blushing, she picked it up again. If she was going to win, thinking about Dr Bolton was not going to help either.

* * *

 

 

Ned was beginning to panic.

He had thirty minutes left until he had to present this ridiculous biscuit sculpture to the judges, and Robert had fallen asleep in his chair. Half his biscuits were still in the oven; he’d panicked and taken out the other half far too early, and now they sat wetly on the baking tray. There were lumps in the icing sugar, he’d accidentally flicked powdered ginger up his nose, and there was so much red food colouring on his hands it looked like he’d just murdered someone.

He stared down at his workstation, a dull, flat panic slowly trickling through his mind. Cat had always made it look so easy…

“Mr Stark?”

Robert’s boy was standing in front of him, looking incredibly nervous. He really didn’t look like his father at all, with neither his heavyset build nor his dark hair. Ned supposed the boy must take after his mother.

“I’m Joffrey,” he said, “I’m friends with your daughter.”

Ned’s eyes narrowed.

“I…I wanted to speak to my dad.”

Instantly, Ned’s heart twisted. All of a sudden it was like he was catapulted back to when Jon had been five years old and he wouldn’t stop asking where his daddy had gone. For years after Rhaegar and Lyanna had died he’d had nightmares where his own children had looked up into a stranger’s eyes, crying for their daddy…

He gave himself a little shake. “’Course,” he muttered.

Joffrey came around the bench as Ned gave Robert a shake.

“Robert,” he hissed, “your lad wants to speak to you.”

Robert groaned. Joffrey shuffled a little closer, until he was standing right next to the oven.

Ned gave him another sharp shake. “Robert!” he hissed, “your boy’s here!”

Robert blinked up at him. “Edric?” he mumbled.

Ned prayed the boy had not heard it. “Joffrey!”

Robert blinked again, frowning. “Joff’s here? Why?”

Ned almost wanted to slap him. He turned around – catching the briefest flicker of guilt crossing Joffrey’s face – and clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Go on, son. I’ll have a word with the cameraman, give you some privacy.”

He strode off towards the nearest camera, desperate to get away from them. Even though he was his friend, Ned knew Robert had made some bad choices, and he did not want to be there when the boy started asking about them.

He passed Robert’s brother, Renly, on his way out. Renly jerked a head towards his workstation. “You’re really going to leave your bakes alone?”

“Robert’s there. It’ll be all right.”

Renly shrugged. “if you say so.”

When he got back to his workstation, with less than ten minutes to spare, Robert was asleep again and smoke was billowing from his oven. The temperature had been turned up by over a hundred degrees, and Joffrey was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

 

 

Robb was furious.

His dad had been voted off after that Joffrey kid had turned up the ovens, and there was nothing he could do about it. He’d just been trying to do the decent thing, and let a father and son talk without a godsdamn camera being shoved in their faces, and look where it had got him.

When he saw the smoke, his dad’s face had gone completely blank. It had stayed blank when he watched Joffrey saunter over to Sansa, smirking and flirting with her while she stared over at the fumes spilling out the oven. It had stayed blank when the presenters had told him and Robert both that they just hadn’t been _quite_ up to scratch this week, and they would be going home empty-handed.

Robb’s face was not blank.

His teeth were tightly set together, his fists were clenched, and Theon was beside him, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. They stood by the door of the make-up trailer as the sun went down, waiting for Joffrey to come out, ready to kick his ass.

The door opened. For a second Joffrey’s blond head gleamed like a lost coin in the light from the trailer, and then the door closed again. The second it shut Robb lunged forward, pinning Joffrey up against it with one burly forearm. The kid shrieked like a little girl, and Theon laughed at the sound.

“Let go of me!” he snapped, squirming under Robb’s grip, “I’ll tell my uncle –”

“I don’t care about your damn uncle,” Robb spat, “I know what you did! You arsed about with my dad’s oven to get him out of the competition – why?”

“Go on, Robb! Kick his teeth in!” yelled Theon.

Joffrey tried to shove Robb’s arm away; he barely felt it. It was worse than fighting with Cousin Robin.

“I don’t have to answer to you,” Joffrey hissed, “don’t you know who I am?”

“Yeah – you’re a whiny little bitch who won’t shut up!”

“Yeah, tell him, Robb!”

Joffrey smiled. “I’m Tyrion Lannister’s nephew. My grandfather is _Tywin_ Lannister. He owns the entire network. My watch is worth more than the crappy little northern bog you crawled out of, and if I say the word, my grandfather will make your life a living hell.”

Robb’s stomach swooped. “You’re lying.”

Joffrey’s nasty grin widened. “You want proof? Fetch your sister and I’ll show you what I can get away with.”

Robb slammed him into the trailer again. “Don’t you say one word about my sister!”

“You’d better take your filthy Northern hands off me, then!”

The trailer door opened. Robb let go of Joffrey at once and took a sharp step backwards, and Theon shoved his hands in his pockets immediately. Tyrion Lannister was standing in the doorway, his shirt half-undone and his hair looking very unprofessionally tousled. There was a lot of giggling coming from inside the make-up trailer, and Tyrion did not look pleased that it had been interrupted.

“Nothing wrong, boys?”

Robb kicked at a tuft of grass, moodily.

“You know, I could have sworn I heard threats being exchanged. Threats about _sisters_ , dear nephew. I don’t want to hear them again.”

Joffrey’s lip curled, but he said nothing.

* * *

 

 

When Ned got home, he was almost knocked over by all the dogs. From the living room, he could hear Bran and Rickon yelling at one of their computer games. From the kitchen, he could hear Cat not-quite-yelling at Arya. She was using the voice she always used when she was trying extremely hard to keep her temper, and having limited success.

“Well, if you didn’t take Sansa’s cakes, Arya, then who did?”

“No-one.”

He smiled. He bent down to scratch a random dog behind the ears – it must have been Shaggydog, because it tried to bite him as he did so – and hung his coat up on its peg. Cat had a pot of his favourite stew in the oven – he could smell it from here, and it was making his mouth water – and once she had finished berating his younger daughter, he would go into the kitchen and ruffle his children’s hair in the way they always hated. Then, he would hold Cat close and give her a kiss – a real kiss, if the children weren’t looking – and give her a good deal more of them, once the children were in bed.

He was glad to be home, that much was true.

But he could not shake the feeling that he should not be here. Robb and Sansa were off in King’s Landing and there was nothing he could do to help them. The network had told him that he had to go home immediately, and that he would not be allowed to mix with the other contestants while the show was still broadcasting. Apparently it was in his contract; it was certainly in the copy that Baelish had handed him.

Robb would be all right, if he could keep his temper. Theon would egg him on – he always did – but he knew where to draw the line.

Sansa, though…

She was such a gentle girl. So trusting, so eager to please. She hadn’t yet learned that there were people she couldn’t always trust, and people that she shouldn’t want to please. And now the TV studio run by Joffrey’s grandfather were keeping him away from his little girl, just when the boy had started showing an interest in her…

One of the dogs headbutted the backs of his knees, and he started towards the kitchen door.

Even as he opened it, and held out his arms to his wife and children, he could not shake the feeling that there was something very wrong with the Baratheon boy.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Here's the latest chapter - hope you all enjoy it :) as always, don't be shy about leaving feedback, I love hearing what you all think!

Something didn’t feel right.

Sansa sat in her hotel room in King’s Landing. Joffrey had called earlier that day – although when she’d given him her number, she couldn’t remember – and he’d told her that he wanted her to meet his mother.

He’d _told_ her, not asked her.

Now, she was dressed in her favourite green dress, her hair and make-up immaculate, and her…well, her _boyfriend_ , she supposed, liked her enough to want to introduce her to his family. And yet, she was not happy.

She wished her dad was still on _Baker’s Dozen_ with her. It had been so sweet of him to let Joffrey and Mr Baratheon talk in private, and it was a real shame his bake had burned while he let them talk. Still, she thought, that was probably Mr Baratheon’s fault; he should’ve kept an eye on the temperature.

She squared her shoulders, and headed down to the hotel dining room, where she would meet Joffrey’s mother.

She had only been in the dining room of the Royal Hotel twice: once when she was exploring the hotel, and once on the night before the show started filming. She was driven out to the set long before breakfast, and was driven back long after dinner. The most she’d eaten there were the mints the cleaning staff put on her pillows.

It was gorgeous. Huge arched windows lined the walls, looking out over the hotel gardens. A chandelier glittered over her head. There were immaculate white tablecloths everywhere she looked, and every surface seemed to gleam.

She hovered awkwardly by the bar, peering around the restaurant. She had only seconds to wait before a waiter approached her.

“Miss Stark,” he said, “Mrs Baratheon has been expecting you. Follow me.”

“Oh, thank you! Is she here already?”

The waiter did not answer. He led her through the tables, to where the most glamorous woman Sansa had ever seen was sitting in front of a clear cocktail in a long, thin glass. She had long, golden hair that had been elegantly pinned back, she wore a deep red cocktail dress and her eyes glittered like emeralds.

“Well,” she said, smiling, “aren’t you a pretty one. Do sit down, Sansa dear.”

Sansa beamed at her and did as she asked. Mrs Baratheon studied her for a few moments – her eyes flicking over every part of her, like a cat watching a mouse.

“I can certainly see why my son has taken such a liking to you,” she said. “You really are uncommonly pretty.”

She blushed. “Thank you, Mrs Baratheon –”

“You’ve been very good for him,” Mrs Baratheon continued, “I can tell. Anyone who’s been watching _Baker’s Dozen_ could tell, as a matter of fact. He’s so much…sweeter around you.”

Sansa almost wanted to frown. Was Joffrey not normally sweet? But she thought better of it, and kept her smile in place; she wanted Joffrey’s mother to like her.

“I would be very keen to see your relationship continue,” Mrs Baratheon said. “I know it must be difficult for you, being so very far from home, but I want you to know that if there’s ever anything on your mind, you can always talk to me. I would hate for you to feel lonely.”

Sansa smiled at her. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs Baratheon, but I’m sure I won’t be lonely. My brother’s on the show, too.”

Mrs Baratheon’s smile did not even flicker. “Of course. But you know, older brothers don’t always make for good confidants. They don’t always have that happy knack of fully understanding a situation involving their baby sister, do they? When it comes to more delicate matters – like rumours, for example – it would be much better to keep it just between us girls, don’t you think?”

Sansa thought about it. Mrs Baratheon certainly had a point. When she was thirteen, some girls at school had started a rumour about her, and she had told Robb about it in tears. That night, he and Theon had egged their houses, and had spent three weeks terrified they were going to be found out and hauled off to the Wall for it.

She smiled. “Yes, I think you’re right.”

Mrs Baratheon’s eyes glittered. “I’m so glad you agree,” she said, still smiling.

* * *

 

 

The more he thought about it, the more Robb realised that the set of _Baker’s Dozen_ was crawling with Lannisters.

The girls in the make-up trailer had Lannister-green eyes. Half the cameramen had Lannister-blond hair. All but three of the interns had mentioned ‘Great Uncle Tywin’ at least twice. Even a few of the people who delivered the food to the set every morning seemed to be Lannisters, although most of them looked like the weaselly old guy who leered at anything in a skirt.

Every single one of them scurried out of Joffrey’s way, or sidled up to him, wringing their hands together like he was king of the damn world. He really hadn’t been lying about having connections to the network.

But Robb wasn’t going to let that stop him.

He couldn’t threaten Joffrey again, even if he’d wanted to. Everywhere he went the kid had a couple of huge guys following him around everywhere like bodyguards or something. One of them had a huge, twisted mess of scars on one side of his face and a brother in prison; the other was the grumpiest-looking bastard Robb had ever seen, and he’d grown up Northern. Occasionally there’d be this other guy as well, some smug blond idiot in a suit who looked kind of familiar.

He always had Sansa with him, too.

He couldn’t threaten Joffrey again, that much was clear. And, with the camera crew so clearly in his pocket, he’d never be able to get away with sabotage the way that Joffrey had – not that he would ever stoop so low, anyway.

He was going to have to out-bake him.

He’d spent hours on the phone to his mum, writing down everything she said about baking. He’d talked about flavours and techniques and equipment while Arya and Rickon fought in the background. He’d done so much baking research that when he went to sleep all he saw were egg whisks and mixing bowls dancing round his head.

But it would all be worth it.

If he couldn’t slap that smirk off Joffrey’s face with his bare hands, he was just going to have to do it with a cake tin.

* * *

 

 

This week was pie week.

Ordinarily, Sansa would have been looking forward to it. She’d always loved making apple pies with her mum, even though Robb, Arya and Theon would always eat them all. Growing up, they’d have pie for dinner at least once a week – chicken and mushroom, or her dad’s favourite, steak and kidney – so making them should have felt as natural as breathing.

But even breathing didn’t feel very natural any more, when there were so many cameras in her face. Everywhere she went there seemed to be one swivelling round to watch her, whether it was the big studio cameras on their special runs or just someone who’d pulled their phone out whenever she and Joff held hands in public.

He always wanted to hold hands, when they were together. He would do more than just that; he’d drape his arm across her shoulders like a scarf, or wind it around her waist like a snake. The one time she’d worn jeans around him – nice jeans, smart mint green ones, not like Arya’s ratty things – he’d tried to put his hand in her back pocket, and she could have sworn she’d felt him squeeze.

She hadn’t thought he would do things like that.

She might not have minded if there hadn’t been so many cameras everywhere, but they only seemed to make him worse. Every time they got in front of the studio cameras he would be all over her, even when she was just doing a sound check. They hadn’t really been properly alone together – he was so popular, there always seemed to be someone hanging around – but she was sure that when they were, he wouldn’t be so bad. He was probably just putting it all on for the camera.

The first challenge was easy enough – a fruit pie. She’d chosen apple and cinnamon and ordinarily, she would have already started on her filling by now. But Joffrey’s was already in the oven, so he was leaning on the other end of her workstation and talking about his extended gap year when she was trying to concentrate.

“…so of course, I didn’t stay there long. It’s impossible to get a decent cup of coffee anywhere north of Whiteharbour, let alone beyond the Wall. And the hotels! They didn’t even have a car to pick me up at the airport; I had to take the bus! And the maid was always meddling, you know she threatened to call my parents when –”

She began pressing the dough into her pie tin. Joffrey bristled.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Of course,” she said, tipping her baking beans into the tin, “why did they call your parents?”

“Never mind about that,” he said, a little too quickly. “You know, Sansa, sometimes I just can’t believe you’re from the North. You’re so sophisticated.”

She put her crust in the oven, smiling to herself. “Do you think so?”

“You should move south; it’d suit you so much better. Maybe you should stay here, after the show’s over. Mother would let you stay with us.”

She was chopping her apples; the knife slipped. Blood welled up along the side of her thumb at once and she shoved it under the tap as fast as she could. For the first time since they’d started baking Joffrey took his eyes off her; he watched the pinkish water swirl down the drain with an odd expression on his face.

“Are you asking me to move in with you?”

He grinned at her. “Why not? You can’t stay in that northern hellhole all your life, can you?”

She hesitated. The cut was deeper than she thought; it was still bleeding.

“I don’t know about that, Joff,” she said, quietly, “it’s such a big decision to make, and we haven’t really known each other all that long. Besides, I don’t have a job. I wouldn’t want to take advantage of your family like that.”

He laughed. “Don’t be silly! You won’t need a job if you stay with us. _We’ll_ take care of you.”

He took her hand and squeezed it. The cut on her hand opened up again, and blood oozed all over his fingers.

“We can spend whole days together. No-one else would get in the way. It’ll just be you and me, Sansa.”

She could feel herself blushing. He squeezed her hand again – a little too tightly, this time, but she didn’t really mind.

“Think about it,” he said, sauntering back to his table.

* * *

 

 

Brienne slurped her third coffee of the morning and flicked through her employee satisfaction questionnaires. They were balanced on top of a stack of upturned crates round the back of the set, and every time she turned a page the whole structure wobbled. When she’d got to work that morning the Lannister PR team had commandeered her trailer. They’d said it was temporary – at least, that was what the guy with the facial scars had told her.

She didn’t mind working outside much. The signature challenge had just finished – the smell of fruit pies still lingered in the air – and the crew were already setting up for the technical, so she had plenty of time. It was a beautiful day, she could see a lot more of the set and she never had enough room to stretch her legs out at her desk anyway. She could do without being kicked out of her trailer by some shiny blond bastard once it started getting cold, but for now she was content to stand in the sunshine.

Stannis Baratheon came round the back of the tent, talking urgently into his phone. She tried not to listen.

“We had an agreement, Selyse. I told you I’d be busy for at least the next few weeks; I sent you the filming schedule.”

Brienne turned a page, frowning. Some of the interns weren’t being paid. That wasn’t right; it was official policy for all LTV interns to be paid, she’d set up a meeting about it…

“You know I can’t just drop everything and go back to Storm’s End! We’ve discussed this already!”

Ah, Brienne thought, that explained it. All the interns who hadn’t been paid had been working under Petyr Baelish. His cheques must be bouncing again. That man had been in and out of debt more times than she could count and yet somehow, he always managed to wheedle his way out of trouble…

“No, that is not acceptable! You can’t just – Selyse!”

Stannis hung up. He was breathing very loudly, his nostrils flared, his mouth set in a pencil-thin line.

She stuffed her questionnaires back into her bag. “Um, excuse me, Mr Baratheon, are you all right?”

Stannis rounded on her. “I have to leave. This instant.”

“Mr Baratheon, wait! What –”

“I have to pick up my daughter this minute. I’m sorry, but I can’t stay for filming. Can you arrange transportation to the airport? I can pay.”

Brienne hurried after him, almost smacking into a woman all dressed in red as she turned round the corner. “Has something happened? Mr Baratheon, I’m the on-set welfare officer, I can help…”

“I have no wish to talk about my feelings, thank you,” he said, still striding off towards the car park, “my ex-wife intends to leave my daughter home alone while she heads off on some…on some spiritual retreat!”

“Care of the soul is important,” the red woman intoned, her eyes glittering up at him, “perhaps your daughter could join her.”

“That is not an option.”

“Mr Baratheon,” Brienne said, “calm down. You don’t have to leave. The network offers a childcare program which covers travel, supervision, accommodation – we can bring your daughter here.”

Stannis faltered. “You can?”

“Yes,” Brienne said, rummaging through her bag for the relevant leaflet. “Here, look. Is your daughter old enough to board a flight by herself? We can contact the airline and arrange for someone to fly over with her if not. We’ll have someone waiting for her at the airport, we’ll arrange a room for her – we can even adjust your accommodation if you like, so you can stay together. It’s all covered.”

Stannis stopped. The red woman laid a hand on his arm. “Rest assured, your daughter will not be alone. She will always be welcome at the Church of R’hllor; we run a young persons’ group every Wednesday.”

Stannis ignored her and turned to Brienne. “Make the arrangements. My daughter is fourteen, she’s old enough to fly by herself. I will, however, require hotel accommodation that will allow us to stay in the same room. Any other arrangement is not acceptable. She’ll need transportation to the airport in Storm’s End, and from the airport in King’s Landing, and meals included, and perhaps…perhaps some kind of activities arranged for her…”

He was starting to look slightly manic. He rounded on the red woman.

“What did you say about that group on Wednesdays?”

The red woman smiled and led him away, while Brienne hurried off to find Pod.

* * *

 

 

Every time he looked at the Dornishman, Tyrion could feel the beginnings of a headache blossoming in his skull.

It wasn’t his propensity for brightly-coloured, skin-tight, open-necked shirts that he objected to. Olenna and Margaery appreciated them, and so did a few of the contestants – he’d caught Renly Baratheon and Walda Frey looking more than once. Nor was it the endlessly spicy creations he would present to the judges, even though he would smirk at Tyrion’s watering eyes every single time he had to taste the Dornishman’s cooking. Nor was it the grudge he seemed to hold against the LTV – from what Tyrion had understood, there had been some unpleasantness between Sandor’s brother and Oberyn’s sister some years ago. Thankfully she had not been badly hurt, but the experience had shaken her, and Oberyn seemed to hold the LTV personally responsible for his sister’s condition.

The man was completely obsessed with sex.

Last week he’d presented an extremely elaborate biscuit sculpture that depicted the ‘ultimate act of love’. Thankfully, Tyrion had managed to talk him down into depicting only one of the ‘acts of love’ he had intended, but he had still had to suffer through another disapproving phone call from his father because of it. Oddly, Tywin Lannister had not mentioned Oberyn taking off his wet shirt on camera; apparently that part had gone down quite well with their viewers.

This week, his neck was covered in hickeys that would make a teenager blush, and Renly Baratheon was hiding underneath a poloneck jumper. An enormous pan of lemon curd sat in front of him – ready to go in the 12 miniature lemon meringue pies the contestants were supposed to be making – and Margaery was leaning on his workstation again, listening to him with rapt attention.

“…but of course, I always find that lemons are my favourite fruit to work with. They’re so fragrant, so sharp. They wake up all your other senses and linger on your tongue.”

He cleared his throat. “You only have twenty minutes left, Oberyn.”

Oberyn ignored him. He dipped his finger into the lemon curd and held it out to Margaery. “Would you like to try some?”

Margaery’s eyes were sparkling. She was leaning forward, her lips parted, strangely breathless. She bent down, ready to lick the lemon curd off Oberyn’s finger and at that point Tyrion had to look away because the last time he’d seen her like that had been the night of the launch party. After she’d got through with him he’d been limping for days.

Olenna cleared her throat. “You know, there is an entire rack of spoons on every workstation which the interns put there _just_ for you. Don’t let all their hard work go to waste, will you?”

Tyrion let out a sigh of relief and turned back to the workstation, just in time to see Olenna Redwyne licking lemon curd off a spoon, staring directly into a camera with a coquettish expression on her face that was frankly confusing. Margaery was laughing, Hot Pie looked horrified, and Oberyn looked strangely impressed.

He caught Margaery’s eye as they walked away, and she winked at him. Oberyn Martell watched them leave.

* * *

 

 

Walda had never been good at savoury things.

She’d always had a sweet tooth, ever since she could remember. When she’d started baking, it was already second nature to reach for the sugar bowl. Sweet things always tasted so much better than savoury, so why bother with anything else?

When she’d told Dr Bolton what she baked, he’d said it was a wonder that she had such good teeth. But then again, he was always saying nice things like that; it was why she liked him so much. Her sisters never agreed – they said he was creepy – but Walda knew they were wrong. Every time she brought him a new bake, he always insisted on sharing them with his patients. He was a sweetheart, no matter what her sisters said.

But now, she was beginning to wish she’d taken him a few cheese straws or something. She could barely remember the last time she’d made something savoury before applying for the show, and she was beginning to wish she’d spent more time practicing.

Their showstopper challenge was to make a meat pie with a historical theme, and she barely knew what she was doing. The Targaryen siblings were making something with a dragon on top again – or rather, the girl was making it while her brother told her what to do. Renly Baratheon was already moulding pastry into the shapes of elaborate leaves and petals – if she remembered right, it was the old sigil of House Tyrell. That nice sunburned-looking man – Jorah, she thought his name was – was doing something with crossed swords on the top, and Oberyn had just sauntered into the tent looking distinctly rumpled. One of the girls from the make-up trailer gave him a little wave as he passed, and he winked at her.

But the one she was really worried about was the Northern boy.

He was like a man possessed. He was surrounded by a cloud of flour. Pastry spun between his fingers like a top. Dozens of intricately shaped bits of pastry surrounded him, each one more perfectly shaped than the last, while his Iron Islander friend poked at a pan full of meat and gravy bubbling away on the stove.

The presenters wandered over to his workstation, and the second they arrived it was like a light had been switched on. He smiled, he laughed at their jokes, he told them how he wanted to make his dad proud. He also told them he’d been making – and eating – pies since before he could walk, and from the way the judges were smiling at his pie crust, she believed him.

She glanced over at Grandpa Walder. His pie was already in the oven. He wouldn’t have any trouble at all. So many of their family worked at LTV that she couldn’t walk across the set without bumping into one of her cousins, and every single one of them was keen to impress Grandpa Walder. He was sitting on a fortune – or so everybody said – and for as long as she could remember every single member of her family had been trying to worm their way into his will. If he got into trouble on the show, she was certain it would not be for long.

She glanced down at her own pan, which was full of a pie filling that smelled inexplicably sweet. She knew she would not be so lucky.

* * *

 

 

Sansa knew that something was wrong.

Joffrey and Robb had been glaring at each other all day. She could practically feel Robb and Theon’s angry stare burrowing into the back of her neck. She could see Joffrey glowering back at them, his lip curling, his green eyes flashing.

She could not say why, but something about his temper frightened her.

He was perfectly lovely to her, though. He always was. Once his little castle scene was safely in the oven he leant on her workstation again and started telling her more about his gap year. Apparently he and his friend Ramsay had done some crazy things north of the Wall which were just too rude to talk about on camera. Every time he mentioned him Joffrey would collapse into a fit of laughter and say she should have been there.

“Won’t you tell me what happened?” she’d asked, when he’d finished wiping his eyes.

Joffrey kept smiling, but all the laughter drained right out of his face. It looked so false that for a moment, she wanted to run away from him.

“Maybe later,” he said, grimacing at the camera, “I know for a fact that Mother is watching.”

Still, she thought, as she took her finished pie out of the oven, that was understandable. There were a lot of things that she wouldn’t want to say on national TV either.

The presenters began making their way around the tent, inspecting the finished bakes. Her model of the ruins of Winterfell Castle would go down well, she thought, but she wished they’d come to her first. She hadn’t been the only one to choose a castle-themed pie. Mr Frey and Mr Baratheon had both done castles, and now they were glaring at each other, and of course Joffrey had modelled his on the Red Keep. Strangely enough, he didn’t seem to be angry at Mr Frey or Mr Baratheon; he was glaring at Robb again. Sansa didn’t know why – Robb’s pie was in the shape of a direwolf’s head, so he couldn’t be angry about that.

The presenters moved around to Joffrey’s table and Sansa straightened up.

There was a long, awkward silence.

“This…this is the Red Keep, isn’t it?” Hot Pie asked.

“Yes,” said Joffrey, “Traitor’s Walk. Where they used to put the severed heads of traitors to the crown.”

“The clue is in the name,” Tyrion said drily, “what on Earth made you choose something as gruesome as this?”

Joffrey puffed out his chest a bit. “The theme was historical,” he said, sounding defensive, “it’s a part of history!”

“Yes, but all the same –”

“It’s very detailed,” said Margaery, “is that – oh.”

There was another long silence.

“Perhaps we should cut into it and see how it tastes?” Olenna murmured. Her voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it that Sansa did not like.

She shuffled around the edge of her workstation and hung back, peering over the presenters’ shoulders.

Joffrey had made an incredibly detailed reconstruction of Traitor’s Walk, complete with battlements, bridges and miniature severed heads mounted on tiny toothpicks.

One of the severed pastry heads looked just like her father’s.

She went cold all over.

The presenters saw her looking, but she did not care. She drifted back to her workstation as if on wheels, her mind teeming with horrible thoughts. She barely even listened when they gave their comments. Before she knew it, it was time for the judging. She blinked, and Oberyn was hugging everyone goodbye – lingering a little when he came to Margaery and Renly. She blinked again, and everyone was walking out of the tent – Oberyn with a girl from the make-up trailer, Dany with an enormous leather jacket swamping her shoulders – and Joffrey was smirking at her.

“We need to talk,” she said.

He smiled. “Of course. What’s bothering you?”

“Away from the cameras. Somewhere private.”

His smile vanished.

He grabbed her hand and all but dragged her out of the tent, stomping through the forest of lights and cameras until they found a deserted corner. They were at the very edge of the set, where the trees just began to creep towards the immaculate green grass, and somehow Sansa was regretting her decision to talk to Joffrey so far away from the rest of the crewmembers.

“Well?” he snapped.

She hesitated.

“Spit it out!”

“Why did you do that?” she asked, “you made a model of my dad’s severed head out of pastry and presented it to the cameras! That’s horrible, Joff! Why would you do something like that?”

“Shut up!” he spat, “I don’t need to explain myself to you!”

“Yes you _do_! You can’t just –”

He grabbed a handful of her hair and tugged her towards him. Pain flared across her scalp at once and she staggered forward, until her face was inches from his.

“My grandfather _owns_ this entire network. I can do anything I like. If there’s footage, it won’t be broadcast. If there’s a story for the papers, it won’t be printed. And if something does get _leaked_ ,” he hissed, giving a sharp tug on her hair again, “some of the best lawyers on the continent are already waiting in my grandfather’s office. You can’t tell me what to do.”

She let out a little cry of pain and saw his eyes gleam.

“So you’ll do exactly as I say,” he murmured, his voice loaded with threats, “and you won’t question me on camera again. Do you understand?”

She nodded. He loosened his grip on her hair and she straightened up, shaking.

“Now,” he said, “how about a kiss?”

She stared at him. “I –”

“You’re not angry with me, are you?” he said, his voice dangerously low.

She closed her mouth, shook her head, and kissed him. Then, they walked back to the set, Joffrey holding her shaking hand.

* * *

 

 

Dany had kept the stranger’s leather jacket.

She’d told Viserys that the costume department had given it to her after she’d been caught in the rain, and he accepted her story without question. Every time she put it on she almost got lost in it; she had to roll the sleeves up four times before she could actually use her hands. But she loved it – it was warm, it never let in the rain, and it was so soft and supple that she could have slept in it.

It was a very good jacket, which was exactly why she had to return it.

She’d told Viserys Margaery had been asking about his book just as everyone was leaving the set. It had worked like a charm; her brother had rushed straight after the presenter without looking back. Meanwhile, she’d slipped out with the rest of the contestant, the leather jacket tucked underneath her arm.

She finally found the stranger by the vans, when it was just starting to get cold. He and some other equally burly guys were loading equipment into the back of an enormous lorry. As she came closer, she saw him balance an enormous light on his shoulder as if it weighed nothing at all.

Her heart began to pound.

A couple of the guys noticed her. Some of them raised their eyebrows appreciatively, some of them whistled, some of them laughed and started nudging each other. She did her best to ignore them, holding her head high like an old Targaryen queen.

She cleared her throat. “Excuse me.”

The stranger turned around. The second he saw her he set the lamp down and said something to his friends in a language she did not understand. They laughed, and left them alone together.

He was in his wifebeater and jeans again. The growing chill didn’t appear to affect him at all – either that or he’d been working so hard he couldn’t feel it. His arms and shoulders were covered in oil and grime – had he been working on a car? – and as she came closer he tried to wipe his hands on his jeans without her noticing.

“I’m Daenerys,” she said, speaking very fast, “my friends call me Dany.”

He nodded. “Drogo.”

His voice was so deep. She could feel the heat crawling under her skin. She held out his jacket to him – so quickly that he must have thought she was going to throw it.

“I’ve brought your jacket,” she garbled, “it was really nice of you to lend it to me. I think I might have got flour on it, but it’ll brush off.”

He took the jacket from her. His fingers brushed against hers as he did so, and she did not know whether she wanted to pull away or dart forward and seize his hand again.

There was a sudden gust of wind. She shivered as a few loose strands of hair were pulled free. Before she knew it, a smile was crinkling at the corners of Drogo’s eyes and he was shaking out his jacket and draping it around her shoulders. He was so careful and gentle that she could barely feel the weight of his strength at all.

He smoothed the jacket across her shoulders, still smiling. She clutched the lapels, pulling it a little tighter. The wind caught at his hair.

“You’ll catch a cold,” she said, “somebody really ought to buy you a jumper.”

“No.”

They were standing so close together that she had to crane her neck just to look into his eyes. There was another gust of wind and for a second she wondered what would happened if she staggered into his chest, pretending it had knocked her off-balance.

She decided that she was not going to pretend.

Quickly, so she wouldn’t lose her nerve, she stood up on her tiptoes and pressed a brief, swift kiss to his cheek. She missed – he was so tall that the highest she could reach was his jawline – and she bobbed back down again with her cheeks burning.

For a second, he simply stared at her.

Then, he picked her up and sat her back down on the back of the truck. Her legs swung wildly in the air, but her face was finally level with his. He inclined his head, and she grinned at him.

When she kissed him again, she did not miss. Her mouth found his, her hands wound through his hair, and heat crackled underneath her skin.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Here's the latest chapter - hope you guys enjoy it! Might be slower on the updates in the next few weeks because I'm gearing up for NaNoWriMo. As always, feel free to leave a comment - I love hearing your feedback!

Sansa was waiting in the dining room of the Royal Hotel, her hands slippery with sweat. Mrs Baratheon should’ve arrived fifteen minutes ago. She sat at the table, a glass of tap water in front of her, her eyes darting all around the room.

The more she looked, the more she realised that other people were looking at her. All around the restaurant people were glancing over at her, cameraphones in hand. She knew that they had recognised her from _Baker’s Dozen_ , and her cheeks burned at the thought.

Her phone buzzed on the table; she had a message from Joffrey. She replied at once. He got angry if she took too long to respond, so she always made sure to keep her phone where she could see it.

Mrs Baratheon glided into view, her heels clacking across the marble floors. The second she saw her Sansa flinched, her knees smacking into the table. She lurched out of her seat, half-doubled over in her hurry to get up, but by then Mrs Baratheon was already at the table.

“Don’t get up, little dove,” she said, as the waiter pulled out her chair.

Sansa sat back down. Mrs Baratheon ordered a cocktail.

“Aren’t you having anything, Sansa?” she asked.

“I’ll stick to water, thank you.” It was all she could afford.

Moments later, the waiter arrived with a clear cocktail in a tall, thin glass. Sansa could smell the alcohol as he set it down on the table, and she wondered how Mrs Baratheon could drink it and stay upright.

“Now,” she said, as the waiter walked away, “what did you want to talk about?”

Sansa took a deep breath. “It’s about your son. He…he’s been threatening me. He gets really angry and…and when he does he…he’ll…he’ll hurt me.”

Mrs Baratheon said nothing.

Sansa set her jaw. “I don’t want to see him any more. I’m going to break up with him.”

Mrs Baratheon laughed. “Oh Sansa, dear, don’t be silly.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. “You don’t believe me?”

“Oh, I believe you. Joffrey’s always been very…passionate. He lets his feelings run away with him. He feels things so deeply, you know. Love, as well as anger. But you won’t break up with him.”

Mrs Baratheon took another sip of her cocktail. Sansa felt a lump swelling in her throat.

“I will,” she insisted, her voice cracking.

“No, dear,” Mrs Baratheon said, “you won’t. Think about it. Our family controls a media empire. We own the largest television network on the continent, four out of the seven major newspapers, and an absolute legion of magazines. Tell me, Sansa, would you like to go to university?”

“I – yes, of course. Once I save up enough money.”

“Well, if you do anything to displease our family your face will be plastered across every single media outlet in Westeros. You’ll be seen at orgies, you’ll be seen taking drugs in night club toilets, you’ll be seen vomiting in the gutter in front of the press. Getting into university won’t be so easy after that.”

“But – but I haven’t done any of those things!”

Mrs Baratheon gave her a patronising smile. “Little dove, that doesn’t matter. Any time a girl your age with long, red hair makes a mistake on camera, all we will need to do is to drop a little hint to the press. It’ll be like blood in the water. You’ll be ruined before you know it.”

“But…”

“Oh, don’t fuss! It’s not all bad. You’ll have to be seen with Joff in public once or twice, convince people it’s not all for show, but you’ll be well compensated. Our people will keep you and Joffrey in until the final. You’ll lose to him, of course, but you’ll have made a name for yourself. It’ll be an excellent start, and of course, our family will be there to help you along at every step of the way. We could open a lot of doors for you, Sansa, if you only let us.”

Sansa’s mouth had gone very dry. “And if I don’t?”

“I thought I’d made that clear. I do so hate repeating myself.”

Sansa swallowed. It was all wrong. Mrs Baratheon hadn’t been like this the last time they met. Why couldn’t she just go back to the way she’d been before? Why couldn’t Joffrey be the man she’d thought he was? Why did he have to be so cruel, and so powerful?

“Joff will be joining us for lunch in a few moments,” said Mrs Baratheon, “along with a few other members of the family. Make sure you don’t look so miserable when he gets here, or he’ll be very disappointed.”

Sansa glanced around at the sea of cameraphones in the restaurant, and nodded.

* * *

 

 

Stannis could not fault the LTV’s childcare programme, but it was not what he had been expecting.

They’d sent a car down to Storm’s End to take Shireen to the airport. The representative had presented Shireen with a list of everything she would need – a passport, a few changes of clothes, some money, and some snacks for the journey – and together, they’d worked their way down the list. Stannis had seen it – she’d made another neat, precise tick beside every box when she was unpacking in his hotel room.

The representative had flown with Shireen to King’s Landing, too, and dropped her off at the hotel. Stannis’s room had been upgraded to a family suite, free of charge, and as they were heading up into their new room Shireen had told him all about this representative.

He’d half-expected that the LTV’s childcare program would be run by people like Sansa Stark – he’d been picturing a well-meaning young woman with an earnest expression on her face. When he’d escorted Shireen to breakfast the next morning and said goodbye in the hotel lobby, he had not expected to see a middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper beard and curiously short-looking fingers waiting for his daughter.

He clenched his jaw at once, and stalked over to him.

Shireen was already talking to the man, chatting away animatedly. She seemed very at ease with him. It usually took a long time for Shireen to open up to strangers – she had always been shy, what with her scars – but she was jabbering away to this man as if she’d known him all her life.

“Dad!” she said, waving him over, “Dad, come and meet Davos. He’s the one who took me on the plane yesterday.”

Stannis gave Davos a stiff nod, glancing down at his shortened fingers. How had he been injured? An accident, or something more sinister? The man held out his hand for Stannis to shake. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow – revealing very powerful-looking forearms – and Stannis could see the end of a pointed tail tattooed on the man’s arm, peeking out from under his sleeve.

Stannis had never shaken hands with a tattooed man before. He had seen them, of course – there always seemed to be a few hanging around the streets when he passed by the clubs and bars – but he had never spoken to one of them. Weren’t tattoos supposed to be a gang marker?

He gritted his teeth and shook the man’s hand, squeezing rather harder than was strictly necessary. He was half tempted to ask Davos if he could see his tattoo, just so he could check if it really _was_ something to do with gangs, but then he would have to ask him to take his shirt off and that would just not be proper in a hotel lobby.

So he tried for a smile. It didn’t work; he could see Shireen rolling her eyes.

“Dad,” she said, “Davos was the one who gave me the checklist. He was really good at helping me pack, even though Mrs Baratheon was –”

Stannis looked at her sharply. “She’s your mother, Shireen.”

She wouldn’t look at him. She said nothing, and scuffed at the carpet with the tip of her shoe. She looked like she was about to cry.

“You should be very proud of your girl, Mr Baratheon,” Davos said, quickly, “she was a great help on the plane. Flying gets on my nerves, but she was a real treasure. She read from that book of hers all through the journey and it was just like we were driving along. What was that book, Shireen? The one with that chilly bugger on the cover?”

Stannis’s jaw clenched, but Shireen laughed, brightening instantly. “He’s not a chilly bu– person, he’s Kaige Sable from the _Coldest Love_ series! You really liked the first book when I read it to you on the plane!”

Davos was beginning to turn red. “Refresh my memory, would you, pet?”

“It’s the one where Ebony Tempest is the new girl at school and she meets Kaige and his family who are just really mysterious and pale and cold and stuff but they’re totally drawn to each other and then she finds out he’s secretly the Prince of the Immortal White Walkers but she can’t tell anyone and then they start dating, and then you remember that bit where her long-lost best friend comes back to school, you know, Duke Knight, and then we find out that _he’s_ actually a…”

“Oh yes,” said Davos, “is he the one who’s been keeping secrets from her? I didn’t think he was a very nice lad.”

Shireen laughed again. “Oh Davos, they’re all keeping secrets! Duke is actually descended from the Rat Cook and can change shape at the full moon, Kaige and his family are obviously White Walker royalty and have all those special powers, Ebony’s teacher is actually part of this big coven of witches, and _then_ in the last book we find out that all along Ebony has been…no, I don’t want to spoil it for you! I can lend them to you if you like, but you’ll have to wait a bit for _Kiss of Ice_ because I’ve just started re-reading that one.”

“Right,” said Davos, turning back to Stannis and steadily going crimson. “I thought I’d take her up to the Red Keep today, if that’s all right with you? They do tours.”

Stannis nodded. “That’s fine, but I’d rather she didn’t go up on the battlements.”

“ _Dad_! I’m thirteen!”

“I know, Shireen, but you must still be careful.”

She rolled her eyes. Davos stepped in. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep a close eye on her, but I’m sure she won’t need it. She’s a very good girl, Mr Baratheon.”

Stannis felt his jaw soften. “Yes, she is.”

He watched them go. His little girl looked more grown up than ever. When she’d gone into secondary school he’d finally relented, and allowed her to start wearing make-up to cover up the greyscale scars. She was so much happier for it – she wasn’t getting bullied any more, from the sounds of things – but it made her look so much older.

He got into the car that would take him to the set, feeling much better. She would be safe with Davos. There was something fundamentally trustworthy about him. He was exactly the sort of person who Stannis could picture having a nice quiet drink with and talking about absolutely anything. He looked like the kind of person you could confide in.

He found himself wondering about Davos’s tattoo.

* * *

 

 

Everywhere Brienne looked, there were Lannisters.

Of course, she was used to seeing Tyrion around the set; she’d worked with him for years. He’d always had a couple of distant cousins interning for him, but he always treated them well and wrote them a good reference at the end. Blond Lannister heads were a familiar sight at the LTV, and she was used to seeing a few of them around.

Now, the entire set of _Baker’s Dozen_ was crawling with them. Joffrey Baratheon was being followed around by a small entourage of blonds tailing along after his bodyguards. Tyrion was completely submerged in a sea of relatives clamouring for his attention, and she’d even heard a rumour that Tywin Lannister himself would be coming down to the set this season.

Brienne could do without the lot of them. She knew for a fact that Joffrey boy was making poor Sansa miserable; it was plain to see. It was tart week this week, and even though the bakers were only just setting up for their first challenge, he’d already made several very nasty comments when the cameras weren’t pointing his way. She was standing well out of the camera’s view, but even at this distance she could see Sansa’s face crumple.

So, too, could the man standing near her. He waved frantically to the sound guy, drawing his hand across his throat. The sound guy nodded back and pushed a few buttons; Brienne doubted that anyone would ever hear Joffrey’s comments again.

She glared at the man, on principle.

He was very tall, very blond, and looked vaguely familiar. Everything about him looked very expensive. His suit was crisp, his white shirt gleamed, and the gold watch on his wrist glittered in the watery sunlight.

He saw her staring.

“Yes, it’s me,” he said, sounding slightly bored, “Uncle Tywin’s son. Don’t look at me like that, you’ll have seen me at one of the reunion dinners.”

She frowned at him. “Reunion dinners?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Mind you, you’d think I’d remember a big wench like you. You’re built to stand out.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He rolled his eyes. “Terribly sorry, dearest cousin, however could I be so rude? Uncle Tywin will make it up to you, he’s used to paying people off.”

“I’m not your cousin,” Brienne snapped.

The man turned at stared at her, his eyes travelling up all six foot three of her body, a familiar look of disbelief settling across his face. It was one she was used to, and it did not surprise her.

“No,” he said, slowly, “you definitely aren’t. I’d remember you.”

“You’ve made your point,” she said, trying to keep the anger from her voice.

“Crochety little wench, aren’t you?”

“I told you not to call me that!”

“Well, what shall I call you?”

She scowled at him. “Brienne.”

He held out his hand. “Jaime. Jaime Lannister.”

That was when she recognised him.

It had been years since she’d seen him – he hadn’t been in front of a camera for at least fifteen years – but there was no mistaking it. Almost twenty years ago she’d cheered him towards the finish line from the comfort of her living room. She’d been twelve years old, her entire family had crammed into the living room to watch him compete, and when he’d finally won the gold she’d accidentally punched Cousin Quentyn when she’d thrown up her arms to cheer.

“The athlete?” she asked, hardly daring to believe it.

He rolled his eyes. “No, the High Septon. How many other Jaime Lannisters do you know?”

She folded her arms, refusing to shake his hand. “Luckily for me, there’s only one of you. What’re you doing here?”

“It’s my father’s set.”

“It’s not _your_ set.”

He shot her an exasperated look. “I’m head of PR for my nephew, Joffrey. He needs a little assistance, now and then. I’m simply keeping an eye on him.”

“Well you’d better start doing your job. He’s making that poor girl miserable.”

“Now, Wench, you’re being very unfair. Look at her, she’s smiling. She adores my nephew.”

“She’s only smiling because there’s a camera in her face – and I _told_ you not to call me wench!”

Jaime’s eyes flickered down to the set again. The cameras swivelled away from Sansa Stark, and they both saw her smile falter.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said, slowly.

“Yes you do,” Brienne snorted, grabbing her bag, “now _if_ you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to my office.”

“It’s not the one with the lovely big desk, is it? Because I think you’ll find that’s _my_ office now. Did you need all those papers, incidentally?”

“What have you done with my files? Did you mess up the system?”

He raised his eyebrows again. “There was a system?”

Brienne hauled her bag onto her shoulder and stalked off, while Jaime Lannister laughed.

* * *

 

 

Theon got the call halfway through the technical challenge.

Robb watched him dart out of the tent to take it, only throwing a cursory glance at Margaery’s cleavage as he passed her by. She saw him watching her from his workstation and gave him a little wave, waggling her fingers at him and giving him a smile that made Theon trip over his own feet and Robb drop his spoon into the mixing bowl.

He picked it up again, his ears burning.

Across the room, Joffrey’s ‘helper’ was rolling out his pastry for him. They were making egg custard tarts for the technical challenge, and because the recipe called for almonds, Joffrey said he simply couldn’t handle it because of his nut allergy. So the studio had called in a ‘helper’ for him who, as it happened, had studied at one of the finest Volantine cookery schools.

Joffrey himself was leaning over Sansa’s workstation and hissing in her ear. She was trying to concentrate – she was pursing her lips, she always did that when she concentrated – but he could see her hands shaking. She kept knocking extra spoonfuls of sugar or flour into her bowl when she was measuring them out, and the sight of her trembling hands made his insides seethe.

Theon ducked back into the tent. His face was pale.

“Who was that?”

Theon said nothing.

“It wasn’t that girl you were going on about? What was her name – somebody Miller?”

Theon still didn’t answer.

Robb set down his spoon. “Theon, she’s not – pregnant, is she?”

“I’m leaving the show,” Theon muttered.

“What?”

Theon wiped his hands on his jeans and tugged off his apron. “I’m leaving.”

“But – Theon, mate, this isn’t funny. You know we need to –”

“No, Robb,” Theon snapped, “ _you_ need to. _I’m_ not doing this any more.”

A strange hush descended over the tent. The cameramen swivelled around to face them and Robb felt his ears burning again. He tried to ignore it.

“Are you all right?” he asked, “was it…bad news? From home?”

Theon let out a short, empty laugh. “It’s always bad news from home!”

“Come on, mate, I’m sure it’s not that bad. We’re a team, we’ll sort it out.”

Theon grabbed his jacket. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Robb.”

“Hey! Where’re you going? Look, I know it’s not always easy dealing with your family but –”

Theon rounded on him. “No, you don’t know! Gods, Robb, it’s always been so _easy_ for you! You know what I’ve just been through? My dad was on the phone for a full five minutes swearing at me for coming on this bloody stupid show, saying baking is for girls, saying I’ve been letting the whole family down, saying he’s ashamed of me – well I’m bloody sick of it! I’m going home!”

He stormed out of the tent. Robb darted after him. Several cameramen followed.

“Hey! Hey, Theon! You can’t just walk out! Come on, mate! We’re friends!”

But Theon was already stalking over to the cars, his hands deep in his pockets.

* * *

 

 

Walda was doing her best to keep her head down.

It was easy this week. After the Northern boy’s friend had worked out nobody seemed to want to talk. They all just stared down at their workstations, stirring and measuring and slicing without meeting anyone else’s eyes. The only exception was the Baratheon boy, who was leaning on that poor red-headed girl’s desk again and telling some loud, meandering story while she stared at the floor.

Walda had half a mind to go over there – the poor thing looked so upset – but she decided against it. She was supposed to be working on her showstopper bake, and she didn’t want to draw attention to herself.

The judges were circulating the tent again. They were trying to extricate themselves from Grandpa Walder’s workstation, but he was getting very loud himself and simply _wouldn’t_ look at anything apart from Margaery’s cleavage. Walda’s face burned, and she turned back to her strawberry and marshmallow tarte tatin. She would have to lay everything in place very carefully if she wanted to get her design right, and her strawberry syrup wasn’t thick enough, and across the tent Renly Baratheon had an actual blowtorch for flambéing the top of his bake…

And the judges were coming towards her. Margaery – who had finally managed to get away from Grandpa Walder – was looking somewhat dimmed. She did not look uncomfortable, or upset, or angry, just slightly _less_ , and somehow that was worse.

“Don’t mind Grandpa Walder,” she said, the moment they reached her table, “he’s…he can be a little bit…he’s lonely, I think.”

Olenna raised her eyebrows. “I can’t imagine why.”

“Oh, he isn’t usually! We’re such a big family, there’s always someone with him. But what with Granny Alyssa gone, and Nana Amarei before her, and Grandma Cyrenna before _her_ –”

Tyrion was smiling. “A man losing one wife is a tragedy, but three is starting to look like carelessness.”

Margaery gave a scandalised gasp and gave him a little shove. “Tyrion, really!”

“So your dear old grandfather is just a lovesick puppy, I presume?” Olenna asked, giving her a small smile, “I hope that’s not a trait that runs in the family.”

Walda blushed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the tent door flap open, and the Targaryen girl ducked back inside. Her hands were covered in flour.

“I’m sorry, I don’t really know what you…”

Margaery leaned forward. She seemed much livelier than she had done a few minutes ago, and Walda felt a little better.

“Well, we’ve had so much romance in the tent this season! Joffrey and Sansa, Mr Baratheon and his mysterious woman, Oberyn and…”

“Don’t try and list them, Margaery, we’ll be here all week,” Tyrion grinned.

She pouted at him and turned back to Walda. “Isn’t there someone you like?”

Walda seized a bowl and pulled it towards her, half-wishing she could dive into it and hide.

“What about him?”

Walda looked up, sharply. For one wild moment she thought Dr Bolton would be standing there, but he was not. Instead, it was an enormous Dothraki man with arms as thick as her thighs stalking past the tent. He wore a wifebeater and a pair of old jeans, and as he walked away from them she saw that his – well, his _bottom_ – was covered in flour.

Olenna’s eyes were gleaming.

“I don’t think he’s my type,” Walda said, still blushing.

“So? Who is your type?”

“Oh, you know,” Walda muttered into her mixing bowl, “tall, intelligent, sort of mysterious. But I’m not really interested in that kind of thing.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Olenna, staring after the Dothraki man, “I’d climb him like a tree.”

* * *

 

 

Clearly, Renly thought, Stannis’s new admirer was not a long-term prospect.

Aside from the fact that she seemed to be completely unaware of the existence of more than one colour, it was very much apparent that she neither cared for his brother nor had spoken to him for longer than five minutes. Renly knew all of this because she was sitting on the end of his workstation, twirling his blowtorch between her fingers, and staring at him with an expression that made him want to check his teeth for flecks of spinach.

She was trying to seduce him. Somebody really ought to have warned the poor girl.

“So,” she said, “Renly. Your name suits you. It’s strong.”

He gave her a quick smile. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

“What are you making?”

“Pear and elderflower tarte tatin, with a bruléed finish.”

She twirled the blowtorch again, and for a second he could have sworn he heard something click. He stooped to check the temperature of his oven – he didn’t want to make the same mistake as Ned Stark – but it was all exactly as he had left it. It was just as well; there were only five minutes left.

“Would you mind jumping down off the counter for me? I have to take the tart out of the oven and I wouldn’t want to burn you.”

She laughed. “You cannot burn me. The Lord of Light protects me.”

He glanced at her clinging red dress; it had an artificial shimmer to it. “Will he protect your polyester dress, too?”

The woman’s smile vanished. She slid off the counter. Renly took his tart out of the oven and set it down to cool, then he turned to face her.

“Look,” he sighed, “I’m sure you’re a lovely woman, but I’m just not interested. It’s nothing personal – although if you keep trying to make my brother jealous, it may well be. Now, may I have my blowtorch, please?”

She handed it over with a smirk and waltzed past him, trailing a hand across his back as she left. Renly rolled his eyes. They never seemed to get the message…

He turned on the blowtorch. A furious stream of fire and sparks erupted out of the nozzle – it was much hotter than he had set it – and he flinched backwards, the hot blowtorch slipping from his scorched fingers. It toppled down into his immaculate pear and elderflower tarte tatin, sparks flying everywhere, and he watched the whole thing go up in smoke.

There was no sign of the woman in red, and when he left the show that day, Stannis would not meet his eyes.


End file.
